Domestic Violence Policy: A World of Change

Abstract

The second wave of the feminist movement brought unprecedented changes in awareness of criminal legal system (CLS) responses to domestic violence (DV). The seemingly feminist “success” in the harsher CLS responses, however, resulted in the disparate criminalization of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) and poor individuals, among both DV defendants and victims. Therefore, feminist support for anti-carceral/abolitionist feminism, recognizing the cooptation of feminist ideals within a neoliberal CLS system, has grown. Colonial policing, however, has only tangentially been applied to DV (and other gender-based abuse offenses’) CLS responses. This article advocates for significant changes to policing DV.

Keywords

domestic violence intimate partner abuse colonial policing anticarceral femininism abolitionist feminism

The recent global outrage over police killing George Floyd on May 25, 2020 in Minneapolis, Minnesota, righteously incited the more belated protests of police killing Breonna Taylor in Louisville, Kentucky on March 13, 2020. National and global support for #BlackLivesMatter soared at a previously unimaginable and phenomenal rate. Floyd’s and Taylor’s deaths have been followed by an alarming rate of additional police shootings and knees-on-civilians’-throats (some of which resulted in death) of other Black and Brown people (e.g., Jacob Blake, Justin Howell, Sean Monterrosa, Tnika Tate, and Mia Wright, to name a very few). In the wake, “defund the police” has become a well-known phrase with an unprecedented public outcry about racist policing in the U.S. and other countries. The level of the current significant demands for overhauling policing that would be required to deter law enforcement killing of (and otherwise harming) Black and Brown civilians is reminiscent of the classic Lorde (1981) point (and title of her chapter), “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” Similarly, a recent article on decolonizing policing asks: “If criminologists insist on deploying a concept of policing, does this represent another attempt to override colonized people’s voices, and risk confirming the colonial status of the discipline?” (Porter, 2016, p. 549).

The #BlackLivesMatter movement is instructional and necessary in an assessment of feminist work to innovate criminal legal system (CLS) responses to domestic violence (DV).¹ Although liberal feminist activism was highly influential in acquiring CLS responses to DV, the recent and sustained media, protesters’, and politicians’ attention to the #BlackLivesMatter movement has been far more successful in garnering attention and demands for a massive public and political reassessment of policing. Significantly, both the #BlackLivesMatter and feminist DV movements are increasingly questioning the inadequacy of the current police structure to respond fairly, safely, and appropriately.

This article addresses the common ground between the highly troubling, racist, and often lethal police responses, frequently to people who have committed no offense, documented and resisted by #BlackLivesMatter activists and scholars (e.g., Boyles, 2019; Butler, 2018; Cobbina, 2019; Lowery, 2016) and abolitionist/anti-carceral feminists’ documentation of and concerns with the CLS’s disproportionate criminalizing of Black and Brown people in DV responses (Dasgupta, 2001; Davis, 2011; Durfee & Goodmark, 2019; Goodmark, 2018; Koyama, 2016; Larance et al., 2019; Miller, 2018; Miller & Iovanni, 2013; Richie, 1996, 2012). Individually, but even more so collectively, the #BlackLivesMatter and anti-carceral feminist movements underscore the necessary overhaul of the “gatekeepers” to the CLS, the police. The relatively untapped colonial policing research provides a ripe forum for doing so.

Reassessing Liberal Feminist “Successes” in DV Responses

The sweeping changes in DV awareness and policies that started with the second wave of the feminist movement, mostly in the late 1960s and 1970s, included police DV pro-arrest and, to a lesser degree, court no-drop DV, policies beginning in the 1980s (Belknap & Grant, 2018, 2020; Larence et al., 2019; Pandhe, 1988). In the early 1990s, after centuries of the police and courts failing to take DV seriously, the CLS was flooded with DV arrests, and thus, court cases (Belknap & Grant, 2018).

Pointedly, although these sweeping CLS responses to DV were originally viewed as major successes by many feminists (especially those who advocated for them), this view was raced. Many BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) feminist scholars and/or activists, raised major concerns about and documented the racist and intersectionally disparate impact the feminist-supported DV policies had on BIPOC individuals, regardless of their gender and regardless of whether they were originally identified as an offender or a victim (e.g., Dasgupta, 2001; Koyama, 2016; Larance et al., 2019; Richie, 1996, 2012). No group had a more significant role in this than INCITE!, a grassroots organization of women and gender-non-forming and trans BIPOC scholars and activists (https://incite-national.org/history/) that began in 2000. In 2001, Shamita Das Dasgupta identified the “extraordinary twist of circumstances” when “the anti-violence against women movement” practitioners and advocates were confronted with both dual (i.e., the man and the women in a current or former intimate couple) and women-only DV arrests and charges among different-sex couples² (Dasgupta, 2001, p. 1). This unprecedented CLS response forced advocates to question “the appropriateness of law-enforcement and judicial responses to women who have used violence against their heterosexual [male] partners” (2001, p. 1).

Richie’s (2012, p. 76) analysis of the mid-1990s distinguishes between the liberal feminists, “the more affluent mainstream white women who occupied leadership positions at the time” and the radical, antiracist feminists, “women of color and radical grassroots activists.” With their disproportionate power, the White liberal feminists argued for moderate approaches, “expanding political and civil rights rather than creating structural change,” which Richie (2012, p. 1976) identifies as leading to the “strategic and analytical divergence [that] became one of the first obvious sources of tension between” these two groups. Similarly and more recently, Whalley and Hackett’s (2017, p. 456) analysis of feminist rape crisis and gender-responsive programming for criminalized women non-profits concluded that the White liberal feminist CLS reform efforts “directly strengthen institutions that perpetuate economic exploitation, colonialist notions of progress, and white supremacy.”

Deer (2015) and Villalón (2010) are critical of the state’s power in determining responses to the GBA victimizations of BIPOC women, who are less likely considered “true” victims and thus less deserving of the protections more frequently available to white, straight, wealthier women. Villalón (2010, p. 51) criticizes the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) and parts of the Victims of Trafficking and Violence and Protection Act (VTVPA) for the “legacies of the English common-law doctrine” that can deny legal existence to immigrant DV survivors’ married to undocumented immigrants. Deer (2015) more directly links these to colonial influences and the inherent turmoil of Indigenous people seeking justice through a colonial CLS. Although lauding Native women’s grassroots work in VAWA’s passage, Deer is concerned about the potential for federal GBA legislation with binding anti-sovereignty components passed without consulting tribal governments (pp. 94–96). Additionally, Deer (2015, pp. 61–75) stresses the hypocrisy of the VTVPA given the U.S. history of the government enslavement of Indigenous peoples and the commodifying of Native women’s and children’s bodies

Abolitionist/Anti-Carceral Feminism

Abolitionist feminism, also referred to as anti-carceral feminism, is in large part a response to what has been referred to as carceral feminism, “feminism’s own complicated relationship to carceral expansion” (Musto, 2019, p. 37), and defines carceral feminists as feminists encouraging punishment by the State (Michalsen, 2019).³ Kim (2020a, p. 309) succinctly reports “Today’s account of carceral feminism reveals well-intentioned choices leading to often ill-fated outcomes,” including contributions to mass incarceration, racist myths of violence, and frameworks denying survivors’ agency. Certainly some abolitionist feminists focus more on a carceral system that imprisons far too many people, including women and children, and the deplorable and punishment- and confinement-focused carceral conditions (Carlton, 2018; Carlton & Russell, 2018), including “carceral violence against women” (Carlton & Russell, 2018, p. 267)⁴, than on the gender-based abuse (GBA) victimizations that may lead them there.⁵ This section briefly summarize the abolitionist/anti-carceral feminist movement driven by feminist GBA reform for rape/sexual assault and DV.

Bumiller (2008) lays out a compelling argument for the title of her book, In an Abusive State: How Neoliberalism Appropriated the Feminist Movement against Sexual Violence. More recently, Lerum and Dworkin (2015, p. 328) warn that carceral feminists “selectively scrutinizing the notion of agency without also interrogating the neoliberal demand for victims (and the belief that carceral heroes must rescue them),” suggests that “sexual agency is a problem for (not of) neoliberalism.” The same could be stated for all types of GBA survivors’, including DV survivors’, agency. Leigh Goodmark’s book, Decriminalizing Domestic Violence: A Balanced Policy Approach to Intimate Partner Violence, published a decade after Bumiller’s (2008) book, accomplished for DV what Bumiller book accomplished for rape/sexual assault. Specifically, Goodmark (2018, p. 1) views the CLS response to deterring DV as “ineffective” and with “problematic, sometimes destructive, consequences for people who use [domestic] violence, and their communities.” Her research with Alesha Durfee labeled the strong pattern of criminalizing women, particularly BIPOC women, pursuing protection orders against abusive partners the “protection order to prison pipeline” (Durfee & Goodmark, 2019, p. 1). Similarly, Kim’s (2020b, p. 251) careful documentation and analysis of carceral feminist organizing around GBAs from 1973 to 1983, was so “fully occupied by the agents of crime control” that she labeled this phenomenon “the carceral creep.”

In Are Prisons Obsolete?, Davis (2011, p. 73) identifies the prison and jail industrial complex as “as much more than the sum of all the jails and prisons in this country. It is a set of symbiotic relationships among correctional communities, transnational corporations, media conglomerates, guards’ unions, and legislative court agendas.” Terwiel’s (2020, p. 431) analysis of carceral and anti-carceral feminism addresses the “significant debate” among abolitionist feminists in “developing alternative responses to harm,” referring to Davis’s (2011) call for “a constellation of alternative strategies” to ultimately replace prisons.⁶ Terwiel (2020, p. 431) grapples with the disagreement among some abolitionist positions, for example, abolitionist feminists against transformative justice (TJ) and restorative justice (RJ) approaches, both of which “aim to hold offenders accountable and include affected parties in a collaborative process that seeks to enable repair and healing.” Although Terwiel (2020, p. 431) states that both TJ and RJ challenge the retribution and punishment foci and “the exclusion of offenders from the community,” she asserts that “RJ is sometimes integrated in the criminal legal system—for example, as a court-sanctioned alternative to imprisonment—whereas TJ rejects such collaboration with the criminal legal system and typically seeks to accomplish farther-reaching social change.”

Indeed, some feminist research indicates promising results for RJ used in DV cases when the ethical RJ guidelines are followed (e.g., Belknap & McDonald, 2010; Miller & Iovanni, 2013).

Michalsen (2019, p. 504) powerfully states that anti-carceral feminism embraces intersectional feminism by recognizing that the State

. . .empowers an ineffective and racist system. In fact, it is built on the criminalization of women’s survival strategies, creating a ‘victimization to prison pipeline.’ But prisons are not the root of the problem; rather, they are a manifestation of the over-policing of Black women’s bodies, poverty, and motherhood. Such State surveillance will continue unless we disrupt these powerful systems both inside and outside prisons.

The following section addresses this over-policing through colonial policing, a potent phenomenon and body of scholarship that has only tangentially been applied to policing DV and other GBAs.

Colonial Policing

Few institutions globalized more quickly to every nation on the earth than the one Sir Robert Peel invented in 1829. . .the transplantation involved has very often lacked contextual attunement to local conditions. Consequently, a great many nations have police that are promoters of tyranny, privilege and corruption rather than defenders of liberty. . .there has been excessive transplantation of urban policing models into societies where village life is more the norm. In this regard. . .there is something to learn from pre-Peelian police in the first world and colonial policing in the third world (Dinnen & Braithwaite, 2009, p. 161).

Settler colonizers’ goal was “to create a new social and political order with the ultimate aim of securing a permanent hold on specific, conquered locales” (Dhillon, 2015, p. 6) that “maintain settler sovereignty” (Dhillon, 2015, p. 1). The common characteristics shared by colonial policing culture are “paramilitarism; ‘penal excess’ as exemplified by the excessive surveillance of local populations and police brutality used against them; politicization; centralization; and ethnic bias” (Bell, 2013). U.S. cities implemented “uniform police as part of the shift from class-based politics to liberal pluralistic and professional urban administration, based on formal social control bureaucracies” (Brogden, 1987, p. 7). Of course, class is not the only source of conflict in capitalist societies, but intersect with race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality conflicts (Kienscherf, 2019). Colonial policing is inherently rooted in these conflicts and remains historically bound to maintain social order as yet another form of colonial control. According to Kienscherf (2019), current day metropolitan policing is likely still using approaches to meet colonial intentions.

Progressive policing scholars increasingly address the original and lasting impacts of colonial policing. Just as others have argued we are not in a post-racist society (Bonilla-Silva & Dietrich, 2011)⁷, most progressive policing scholars convincingly argue that we are not in a post-colonial policing era; rather the legacy of colonial policing is alive and flourishing (e.g., Brogden, 1987; Chan & Ho, 2017; Dhillon, 2015; Dinnen & Braithwaite, 2009; Ellison & O’Reilly, 2008; Howe & Monaghan, 2018; Kienscherf, 2019; Nettelbeck & Foster, 2012; O’Reilly, 2018; Seigel, 2018). Very few colonial policing scholars have referenced DV, and when they do, it is typically in parentheses (e.g., Boateng & Darko, 2016, p. 16). The exception is Chan and Ho (2017) in their recent book Women in the Hong Kong Police Force: Organizational Culture, Gender and Colonial Policing. Notably, Chan and Ho (2017, pp. 14, 232) cite gender policing studies from around the world questioning the assumption that women police will respond differently than men police to GBA survivors and offenders. Moreover, they cite the Royal Irish Constabulary’s establishment of colonial policing in the Hong Kong Police (HDP) as highly rigid and entrenched and fraught with sexism and heterosexism (Chan & Ho, 2017, pp. 204, 257).

The HKP was and still is accountable to the government, not the people. In colonial Hong Kong, the nature of state-society relation was between a colonial government and the [I]ndigenous population. The philosophy of policing was to “control with force” rather than to seek “partnership with consent,” and the principal objective was to safeguard the interests of the colonial rulers (Chan & Ho, 2017, p. 257).

Consistent with Deer’s (2015) and Villalón’s (2010) books on Indigenous and Latinx GBA survivors, respectively, other scholars advance citizenship as key to colonization and colonial policing. Kubik et al. (2009, p. 18) address the effect of colonization on “gender relations and societal structures” resulting in Indigenous Canadian women’s and girls’ disproportionately rates of poor health, poverty, and gender-based abuse victimizations. Thus, for Indigenous peoples and undocumented citizens, citizenship and the legacies of colonization loom large. Lavallee and Poole (2010) stress that history and colonization, including the “horrific” abuse legacies from the “residential schools” in which Indigenous children were ripped from their homes and forced to live (p. 273), continue to have profound impacts on Canadian Indigenous peoples’ “physical, emotional, spiritual, and mental health” healing and recovery (p. 271). Thus, the structural legacy of colonization continues to be reinforced through a variety of violent contemporary structures (Wolfe, 2006), which impacts Indigenous women’s DV victimizations, but also the ways in which they heal.

Citizenship is certainly relevant for undocumented, but also documented immigrants experiencing DV (e.g., Messing et al., 2017; Shiu-Thornton et al., 2005; Villalón, 2010). Even for documented immigrants, there can be wrong assumptions about their citizenship, but for DV survivors, undocumented or temporarily documented status poses the additional power of their abusers to threaten their legal status, including seeking citizenship. Given the anti-Latinx racism that has surged in the Trump presidency (e.g., De Genova, 2017), this has likely worsened in recent years. A study comparing Latina IPA survivors who were born in the U.S. to those who were not, found overall higher levels of violence against those not born in the U.S. (Cavanaugh et al., 2014). Clearly, colonial policing is consistent with the State’s ability to define citizenship based on race, class, gender, and sexuality.

Moving Forward

In the U.S., “[d]omestic-violence-related police calls continue to constitute the single largest category of calls received by the police” (Klein, 2009, p. 1). We are not arguing that DV offenders should never be arrested or incarcerated in the current system. Certainly, arrest and even detention are crucial in deterring the most serious DV, intimate partner homicides (e.g., Chan & Ho, 2017; Dekel et al., 2019; Fraga Rizo et al., 2019). But we are also cognizant of research finding that DV arrests are unrelated to recidivism (e.g., Xie & Lynch, 2017), that DV police policies are more concerned with offender than victim outcomes (e.g., Goodman & Epstein, 2005), and DV survivors’ often keen disappointment with police responses (e.g., Chan & Ho, 2017).

Carlton’s (2018, p. 300) analysis of anti-carceral feminists’ reform vs. abolition “campaign struggle” concludes that reform raises risks, while it “remains a paradoxical yet necessary component of abolition strategy.” Similarly, Terwiel (2020, p. 421) warns against engaging anti-carceral feminism when it is viewed solely as “a binary choice between the criminal legal system and informal community justice practices.” She advocates instead for “envisioning a spectrum of decarceration” (italics included in the original), consistent with Davis’s (2011, pp. 73–74) request for innovative and multiple strategies and institutions to ultimately replace prisons. Musto (2019, p. 37) stresses the potential for trans frameworks that include “transgender, transnational, and transformative intersectional feminist perspectives” to counter carceral feminism. Kim (2020a, p. 323) advocates for transformative justice and actions “that challenge neoliberal logics” and “collaborative problem-solving and skills-building” to cultivate transformative projects, urging “a slowness but not a hesitation—a reflection on what feels connected and right rather than a reaction to what is going wrong.” Deer and Barefoot (2018, p. 505) point out that although the current CLS rarely allows most sexual assault survivors “to see their perpetrators held accountable,” they also state that “bringing law into conversation with feminism is usually fraught, ..[and] this lens is imperative if we are to truly address” sexual violence, misogyny, and heteropatriarchy.

Goodmark (2018, p. 1) convincingly argues that in lieu of the CLS response to DV, “taking a different path, one that incorporates economic, public health, community, and human rights policies. Decriminalizing domestic violence—deemphasizing the criminal legal system’s role in responding to intimate partner violence—will enable the United States to develop a multifaceted and ultimately, more effective policy approach.” This is consistent with research documenting the effectiveness of community-coordinated responses that involve survivors more fully and with more agency, focus on their safety, and provide better case outcomes (Cattaneo & Goodman, 2005; Cerulli et al., 2015; Koss et al., 2017; Larence et al., 2019; Shorey et al., 2014; Sullivan, 2011).

Anti-carceral feminism “struggles against structural injustice” (Carlton, 2018, p. 283), which inherently includes police responses, yet to our knowledge, Chan and Ho (2017) are the only scholars who applied colonial policing to DV. Just as significant police reform is necessary to deter the centuries-long colonial policing practices and organizational cultures that continue to kill (and less lethally harm) BIPOC people (that resulted in the #BlackLivesMatter movement), colonial policing has had a devastating toll on the CLS’s responses to DV. As this paper summarizes, feminist led DV criminalization policies have been massively unsuccessful, overall, in deterring DV rates and recidivism and stopping DV fatalities. Moreover, a wealth of scholarship cited in this article and elsewhere documents the disparate experiences of the most marginalized individuals encountering the police as DV victims and offenders, including criminalized DV survivors, which further oppresses them, their children, and their communities. In Are Prisons Obsolete?, Davis (2011, pp. 73–74) argues that “the most effective abolitionist strategies will contest these relationships [that constitute the prison industrial complex, including transnational corporations, prisons and jails, guards unions, etc.] and propose alternatives that pull them apart,” so that “punishment is not allowed to become the source of corporate profit,. . .[where] race and class are not primary determinants of punishment,” and where “punishment is no longer the central concern in the making of justice.” She therefore advocates for creative “alternative strategies and institutions, with the ultimate aim of removing the prison from the social and ideological landscapes of our society” (Davis, 2011, p. 74).

Conclusion

Notably, the BLM movement began through the activism of three Black queer women, Patrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi. This grassroots movement seeks to expand the possibilities of Black liberation and actively challenge the various structural inequalities that perpetuate violence in Black communities (Méndez, 2016, pp. 96–97). We argue that the joint efforts by #Black Lives Matter and anti-carceral feminist activists and scholars’ to unite in a call to end colonial policing (and other colonial CLS) practices will not only decrease the police brutality and killing of Black and Brown individuals but improve the experiences of DV victims, offenders, and witnesses.

It is impossible for this one article to adequately address all the problems and all the innovations in DV policies over the decades. Feminist criminologists and CLS practitioners are increasingly recognizing that effective deterrence and responding to crime in general, and DV specifically, requires policies accounting for the individual, family, neighborhood/community, institutional, and institutional levels, that must also address the intersection of gender, race, class, immigrant, (dis)ability, LGBTQI+ status and other potential marginalizations (Guadalupe-Diaz, 2019; Larence et al., 2019; Villalón, 2010). It is vital to replace pro-arrest and other more punitive police and CLS DV responses with interventions that are less criminalizing of the most marginalized people, including DV survivors. Miller (2018) advocates for an individualized DV survivor-centered response that “recognizes strengths and injuries, is culturally inclusive, is informed by feminism, builds on the wisdom of victimization and survival that is part of women’s lives, and widens the lens of trauma theory to include racism, poverty, and other forms of oppression as potential sources of traumatic injury.” Research consistently finds the improved outcomes for both DV survivors and abusers when individualizing responses based on their intersecting identities and needs (e.g., Goodmark, 2018; Larence et al., 2019; Miller, 2018) and as noted, community-coordinated responses (CCRs) have proven effective in providing this and other successes.

But such responses require funding, as well as dedicated individuals to implement them and keep them effective and afloat. Just as “defunding the police” in #BlackLivesMatter includes moving law enforcement monies to more preventative, more community-building, and less criminalizing investments (e.g., education, mental health), so too would decolonizing the police for DV responses, which should also address Indigenous peoples’ land reclamation and governmental sovereignty (see Tuck & Yang, 2012). In addition to CCRs, research documents how safehouses for DV survivors and their children (e.g., Hetling et al., 2018; Miller, 2018), batterer intervention programs designed by marginalized African American men (Holliday et al., 2019), flexible housing funding and home ownership programs for DV survivors and their children (Boggess & Chamberlain, 2020; Sullivan et al., 2019), and laws and programs to remove firearms from DV abusers (Prickett et al., 2018) have all proven effective in deterring and/or providing more safety and a better quality of life with less criminalization for individuals, communities, and CLS workers impacted by DV.

We are optimistic that expanding and improving community-based policies that more consciously address equity and marginalization and include marginalized community members in forming the programs and policies will most effectively advance DV awareness and education, community-coordinated responses (CCRs), safety planning and resources for DV survivors and their children, and innovative responses to DV abusers. Such innovations can more effectively deter DV before and after it begins than our current agencies and responses. Given that colonialism is embedded in US social structures and institutions, dismantling and rebuilding efforts must be unapologetically anti-colonial to end reproducing colonialism, such as the joint efforts by #Black Lives Matter and anti-carceral feminists activists and scholars’ calls to end colonial policing and other colonial CLS practices and policies, including for DV.

Footnotes

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) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

ORCID iD

Joanne Belknap

Notes

Author Biographies

Joanne Belknap received her PhD in Criminal Justice from Michigan State University. She is a professor of Ethnic Studies at the University of Colorado and a fellow and past president of the American Society of Criminology. Dr. Belknap’s work is primarily on gender-based abuse and intersectional criminology and social justice. She is committed to activism and through the Inside Out Prison Exchange Program, taught college courses in two Colorado prisons. The fifth edition of her book, The Invisible Woman: Gender, Crime, and Justice, was recently published with Sage. Dr. Belknap has won numerous research, teaching and service awards.

Deanne Grant is a member of the Pawnee Nation of Oklahoma and is currently an assistant professor in the Sociology and Human Services and the Native American and Indigenous Studies Departments at Fort Lewis College in Durango, CO. Her specific research interests are: Indigenous Feminisms, Decolonizing Indigenous Sexualities, and Native American and Indigenous Women. Deanne Grant has a Master’s degree in International Studies from the University of Oregon and a second Master’s degree in Indigenous Governance from the University of Victoria, Canada. Dr. Grant graduated from Fort Lewis College in 2004 as a first-generation student and is thrilled to return as an educator.

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