domestic violence

One Hundred Bottles

annette — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

An intensely vivid and riveting story of abuse, pain, honesty, erotica and discovery-this combination of words may not sound appealing, but the provocative and imaginative novel of these topics woven together creates a graphic fall from the literary world into our laps of reading desire. Crafted by Ena Lucía Portela, One Hundred Bottles is the story of a young woman named Z, who is incidentally an amazing storyteller (as well as a reluctantly educated person) and who leads us through her story while trying to find meaning behind her experiences. Given her challenging background, Z delivers a step by step account of her life (with creative backstory included) and you hope she will end up a champion. Z faces what seems the most challenging of all living through an unlucky survivorship; however, she keeps moving along through life, and author Portela puts you, the reader, right next to her. You feel the slaps, you feel the insults, and you breathe a sigh of relief with her at the climax.

Educated at the University of Havana, Ena Lucía Portela brings her life to fiction and brilliantly sets her story in the historic rocky era of Cuba in the early 1990s. All characters seek a chosen lifestyle and all are survivors; depending on their current resources, people enter and spin through Z's life while their own tales turn-and none are left unexplained.

Although she is called "stupid", Z is curious and insistent. Her friends and support range from her priest to a lesbian mystery author. At certain points in reading One Hundred Bottles, you feel like you are reading strictly a whodunit sort of detective novel, but actually the author (and best friend of Z) writes the detective novel based on Z's retelling of actual real events in her section of the world. Brilliantly juxtaposed, the work keeps you engrossed; at times powerfully violent, the novel reminds you that this is what a certain group in a certain culture experienced during this time; if a reader is intimate with abuse or violence, he or she may identify with these parts, but redemption triumphs and allows readers to breathe deeply a sigh of relief.

Published originally in Spanish in 2002, this novel holds up. Reminiscent of Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and Brando Skyhorse's The Madonnas of Echo Park, One Hundred Bottles brings the reader a culture delightfully retold through the eyes of a woman who remarkably survives. As well, the story offers hope and fulfillment, both necessary traits for living in today's world.

Written by: Carolyn Espe, February 18th 2011

Sin by Silence

mandy — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Olivia Klaus

Women Make Movies

There are not many US citizens who do not recognize a pink ribbon as the rallying fight against breast cancer. Even more so for the red ribbon, as it raises the voices of the AIDS epidemic. However, most faces would not correctly identify the cause of the purple ribbon: domestic violence. A purple ribbon is probably a little too uncomfortably similar to the purple bruises a women suffers every nine seconds, according to the film Sin by Silence, which documents the heart-twisting story of incarcerated, battered women serving maximum sentences for killing their abusive partners.

Sin by Silence chronicles the movement of the Convicted Women Against Abuse (CWAA), who unexpectedly find a healing sisterhood in the isolating walls of prison and used their collective strength to bring personal, familial, and judicial change in their lives. Uncontrived and starkly original, the moving narratives are enough to leave the viewer in near distress. The preliminary question of how each woman survived quickly turns into arrows targeting the legal system that punishes already beaten, raped, and tortured women with hefty prison sentences. Their crime? Battered person syndrome and refusing to be killed by their spouses.

Throughout the film, these women prove much more than mishandled, husband-killers. They are emotional, insightful human beings caught in a frighteningly narrow judicial system that fails to comprehend the effects of repeated and brutal intimate partner violence. It will be impossible to view the prison industry and its supposed rehabilitation efforts the same way again.

What will most move viewers is the unwavering support and courage these women lend each other in their collective cry for freedom. Their commitment to education and truth telling transcends their own pain and the bars that ostracize them from society. Sin by Silence is a deeply important film that will leave a probing mark of disturbance on the conscience of anyone who watches it.

Written by: Lisa Factora-Borchers, January 4th 2011

Guardian Spirit

alicia — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Sarah Martin Byrd

Lucky Press

Every good young adult book needs a strong adolescent female heroine, and Guardian Spirit has one in Sadie Madison. Despite the challenges she has faced in her twelve short years, or perhaps because of them, Sadie maintains a resilient, practical core that propels her through her mother’s decision to run away from an abusive husband with Sadie and her younger brother.

The setting of Guardian Spirit is as much a part of the story as the drama that unfolds, offering the reader a vivid look at the mountains of North Carolina and giving the physical surroundings a role in sheltering this family both physically and spiritually. The depiction of the Cherokee people in the more mystical elements of the narrative does seem like a rehash of stereotypes, but nonetheless adds richness and depth as seen through the eyes of a twelve-year-old girl who is eager to learn and experience the natural world around her. Sadie discovers that each of her family members has a guardian spirit that watches over them and can help unlock their own special gifts.

Many women who choose to flee their abusers find themselves isolated and frightened, and this is certainly true for the Madisons, but a community of sorts begins to create itself around them as they venture out to meet their practical needs. It is ultimately their willingness to accept help and honor the mysterious signs that continue to present themselves that keeps this family safe.

While there are some difficult themes of abuse and suicide in the book, they are handled with honesty and delicacy and do not detract from the underlying story of this family who is learning to trust that creating a new life for themselves is possible. Guardian Spirit will entertain young adult and adult readers alike with its interesting twist on the issue of domestic violence.

Written by: Kari O'Driscoll, November 5th 2010

Law of Attraction

admin — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Allison Leotta

Touchstone Books

As far as my taste in reading material goes, I tend to avoid genre books, particularly cookie cutter thrillers and mysteries as many most often lack originality, societal observation, and genuine writing skill. Alison Leotta’s novel Law of Attraction, however, manages to be the exception to the rule, creating a mystery that adheres to the genre standards but also manages to transcend them through tackling the heavy hitting topics of domestic abuse and power struggles within heterosexual relationships.

The novel’s protagonist Anna is an Assistant U.S. Attorney in Washington DC; many of the cases that come across her desk are domestic violence cases in which she observes women suffering through the cycle of abuse at the hands of their husbands and boyfriends. Anna seems to identify readily with the women she helps, and through a series of flashbacks it is slowly revealed that Anna’s own mother was a victim of domestic violence.

Among her cases is Laprea, a woman who seeks legal help to escape abuse at the hands of her boyfriend D’marco, only to continually drop the charges and let him into her life. The day after Valentine’s Day, a bloody Laprea enters Anna office seeking to press charges, sure that this time she is done with D’marco. At the same time, Anna also reconnects with Nick, a former law school classmate who has long been holding a torch for Anna. Sparks fly between the two until it is revealed that Nick is D’marco’s lawyer. Things get messy when Anna begins an impassioned relationship with Nick. While their relationship initially seems to be an idyllic one, Nick is quickly shown to be a man of questionable character when he cajoles Laprea to change her testimony and claim D’marco’s innocence. Things take a turn for the worse when shortly after Nick’s release Laprea’s bloody body is found in a trash bag.

While Law of Attraction has all the ingredients of a typical genre thriller, it somewhat transcends the genre. Leotta’s obvious writing skill is apparent and the characters and scenes are more richly developed than is commonly seen in other thrillers. Many of the legal details and scenarios throughout the course of the book ring true, which can be credited to Leotta’s employment as a federal sex crimes prosecutor. The novel’s exploration of domestic violence and the psychological implications of it are also handled well by Leotta. Much like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, this subject matter elevates the novel as it provides valid societal observation and insight, often into the inequalities that frequently exist in heterosexual relationships.

While Law of Attraction may be more a fun thriller than a substantial work of literary merit, it is nonetheless a joy to read. Those readers who often pass over the thriller genre may find Law of Attraction to be more cerebrally stimulating.

Written by: Adrienne Urbanski, October 12th 2010

The Second Trial

admin — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 08:02:00 +0000

By Rosemarie Boll

Second Story Press

Intimate partner violence (IPV) is a scourge that affects families in every country and at every social class. Between twenty-five and fifty percent of women worldwide will be a victim of IPV at some point in thier lives, and forty to seventy percent of female murder victims are killed by an intimate partner. These statistics are shocking, but what is too often left out of the discussion about IPV is the way violence can affect so many lives. When those in pop culture or the media explore themes relating to IPV, the conversation is limited to finding safety for the survivor, usually a woman, and to utilizing the traditional legal system to prosecute and punish the offender, usually a man. In The Second Trial, Rosemarie Boll moves beyond the dichotomy of perpetrator vs. victim and focuses on the too often invisible children who are harmed by IPV. Through the experiences of an adolescent boy, the book tells the story of a Canadian family coming to grips with extreme violence.

Boll introduces us to Danny, a thirteen-year-old boy who witnesses a family court hearing after his father seriously and continually abused his mother. The book tracks the boy through the court proceedings and then through life in a protection program designed to prevent his father from causing further serious harm to his mother. Viewing complicated legal issues around IPV through the eyes of a child highlights the disconnect between the formality of the legal system and the complex, sometimes contradictory emotions involved in family violence. Outsiders are used to seeing an evil offender and an innocent victim. But what does a child do when this “evil offender” is also a father? The Second Trial addresses these complicated questions of family and safety within an abusive household. Boll captures how a child can love and idolize a parent, even an abusive one.

By delving into tricky questions that surround IPV, Boll raises questions about how clunky traditional legal systems deal with complex issues in family law. She shines a light on non-court based innovations to keep families safe and introduces readers to New Identities for Victims of Abuse (NIVA), which was started by the Alberta government in 1997 to provide additional protection to victims of family violence. IPV is a serious and complicated problem that demands creative solutions. The confines of the courtroom should not be the limits of our solutions to IPV.

The Second Trial provides readers a glimpse into a child’s relationship with family violence, revealing an often forgotten voice in narratives about the subject. By contrasting traditional court-based solutions with the NIVA program, Boll makes us question the bounds of the traditional legal system. She leads readers to demand alternative avenues to justice and creative routes to safety for victims.

Written by: Andrea Gittleman, August 2nd 2010

Voces Zine (Summer 2010, Issue 3)

admin — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Edited by Noemi Martinez

The Voices Against Violence Project

Unapologetic. Raw. Honest.

The third issue of Voces Zine is a collection of poetry by artists from different communities—indigenous, people of color, trans, and queer—sharing their experiences as survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Originally inspired by a small community of Latino immigrants, this issue represents a first-time inclusion of contributors from outside of its original roots.

The eclectic air of the compilation reflects this shift. During an interview I asked editor Noemi Martinez about the strengths and weaknesses of such a model; she discussed how the stories could be competing or compatible, but that each needed to be told. I appreciated her insight and find this invites a greater audience, while also revealing the individual ways we experience violence against women. Some stories might resonate with one reader more than others, but each exposes the important variance of dynamics in surviving violence: blaming, loving, mistrusting, self-hating, empowering, forgiving, healing, hiding, ignoring, being vulnerable, being strong, being uncertain, being alone, being supported.

At times I felt I could sympathize with each word (“unwrap your bandages/let them wounds breathe/let them scab and itch/and fall/away”), with the uncertainty (“am i better?”), and with the paradox of anger and barren strength (“i aint no fucking weak, limp, helpless, shaking, hiding, trembling, dying, lonely, battered girl. i’m a woman with a black eye.”). Other writings left me unattached or distant, to which I cite Martinez’s foreword, “There is no guarantee how one will react to a particular writing when you are a survivor…as a reader, you might find these writings triggering, not helpful, judgemental [sic], totally off, fucked up, questionable, right on, brutally honest, truthful inspiring.” The point: take from Voces Zine what you can relate to, learn from what you might not, and leave the rest behind.

Voces Zine was created to support survivors and to provide a teaching tool for discussion and understanding of what violence against women means. While the variety of themes provide this type of catalyst, at times the compilation seemed to be more of a therapeutic outlet for each contributor. To this end, I do not fault the project, but commend it for its ability to provide a space in which “victim, survivor, thriver” can share, question, and grow.

I admire each of the contributors for finding the strength to speak up and write out and urge any person questioning, challenged by, or curious about violence against women to take a look through Voces Zine. In the interview, Martinez explained, “I’m not an editor. I’m not professional.” Although I believe she has proven her worth of both titles with this endeavour, the humility of her statement is yet another reflection of the DIY compassion and grassroots foundation of this project. Voces Zine is more than words on paper; it’s a resource of hope, inspiration, and healing.

Written by: Ani Colekessian, July 7th 2010

Beauty

admin — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Raphael Selbourne

Tindal Street Press

Beauty is the outstanding first novel of British author Raphael Selbourne, winner of the prestigious 2009 Costa First Novel Award (formerly known as the Whitbread Literary Awards). The novel’s plot is seemingly predictable–an illiterate girl runs away from an abusive home where she had been forced to marry a much older mullah (religious man) at the age of fourteen. However, Selbourne’s pen transforms the story into an insightful glimpse into British-style multiculturalism and immigration, from the point of view of a young woman. Beauty Begum’s tragic tale is one of a young immigrant woman doubly alienated by her family and her environment.

Beauty's timely publication in 2009 is worthy of note, given the paranoia and terror surrounding the tragic London bombings in 2005 and the overt racial profiling that has been ongoing in the Western world. Writer and filmmaker Hanif Kureishi (himself a Whitbread prizewinner) had previously focused in on the immigrant experience and depicted the struggles of Muslim immigrant families in Britain in his screenplays for My Beautiful Laundrette and My Son the Fanatic, for example. Selbourne’s novel can be seen as a valuable continuation of these themes.

Although Beauty never directly addresses the reasons and context for the racism it exposes, it presents us with diverse xenophobic scenarios that are all equally deserving of consideration. It also brings to light the very complex circumstances of women immigrants, domestic abuse, and the everyday struggle of women who are caught between lived tradition and modernity. The author, previously a student of Islamic Studies, is clearly knowledgeable about the topic, a fact that counteracts any reservations we might have about the author’s being just another patriarchal gaze on the “subordinate.”

Selbourne’s secondary characters are rich in detail and complexity. From Mark, the gruff bloke who takes Beauty into his dog-infested home, to Peter, the newly single, perverted neighbor who fantasizes about seducing her, all the characters are cleverly constructed. However, Selbourne’s tour de force lies in his depiction of the feminine psyche. Beauty is very much a convincing female character, of the depth and quality that I had previously only encountered in Roddy Doyle’s Paula Spencer from The Woman Who Walked into Doors. The writer’s sensitivity is key to developing a plausible protagonist.

Raphael Selbourne establishes himself in the proud tradition of English-language writers who manage to paint realistic and tender portraits of specific social groups. Having lived in West Midlands teaching English, he captures the much-ridiculed West Midlands accent in his writing in the same way Roddy Doyle captured the Irish brogue in his novels. Selbourne’s Bangladesh-born Beauty speaks a drawl that is perfectly representative of the West Midlands (UK) setting of the novel. Furthermore, the author scatters Bengali terms in the novel, such as Beauty’s interjections, or explanations for her reactions, thoughts, or actions. Admittedly, Beauty is occasionally an exercise in reading; one must decipher, literally, the spoken language that the author has committed to the page. However, do not let this dissuade you from reading this engaging and thoughtful novel.

Written by: Sophie M. Lavoie, June 27th 2010

Kanyadaan (5/14/2010)

admin — Mon, 24 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Ethnic Cultural Theatre

Seattle, Washington

It is with much anticipation that I attended the opening night show of Kanyadaan, a play written by Vijay Tendulkar and directed by Pratidhwani’s Agastya Kohli. The reasons for my enthusiasm were multifold; for one, I’ve been a fan of Agastya’s (and Pratidhwani’s) work for a few years now, and second, I had personally worked with all members of Kanyadaan’s talented cast in last year’s incisive political satire, Ek Tha Gadha, Urf Aladad Khan. But most of all, from what I knew of the play (and the playwright), it promised a complex plot of important societal concerns that the actors, no doubt, would find challenging to portray, and the audience, perhaps, would find equally challenging to process.

Given the challenging complexity of the characters, the performances by the cast were considerably accomplished. Jayant Bhopatkar, playing Nath, fills the stage with his booming, bombastic monologues that reek of a nauseating brand of “democratic” patriarchy. Nanda Tewari, as Nath’s wife Seva, plays beautifully, his complicit complement in maintaining the status quo, carrying that curious blend of feminist independence and practical subservience that is so characteristic of many of us empowered (Indian) women. But the actors who held my eye the most were Aditi Chaubal, playing Jyoti, and Ankur Gupta, playing Arun.

It couldn’t have been easy to step into the shoes of an abused woman, trapped between her idealistic upbringing and her misplaced muse, or those of an oppressed dalit flitting between mouthfuls of crass expletives and self-flagellating, indulgent remorse. I found my heartstrings empathetically connected with Jyoti throughout the play, beyond reason – beyond the need to understand, judge, or admonish her. And, quite paradoxically, I found Arun’s condition just as poignant; he too was an anchor for my heartfelt attention, once again, beyond my need to understand, judge, or admonish him. Both Aditi and Ankur came out on top, bringing forth with surprising ability the complexity and contradictions of these two central characters, each of whom manifests the societal conditions and conditioning that Tendulkar wants us to consider.

Bhushan Mehendale, playing the support role of Jyoti’s brother Jai Prakash, embodies to great effect the emasculation of his father’s domineering presence and the confusion and repressed frustration of an under-expressed youth. Even C.P. Ramakrishnan and Ravi Sathyam, appearing briefly as insolent sidekicks of Arun, demonstrate with their body language alone that no role is a small one. The performances left no doubt in my mind that Kohli selected a great cast and nurtured the best out of them.

In terms of storyline flow, on occasion the rapid-fire pace of the deliveries disabled me from stopping to ponder, to read more between the lines, to connect more fully to the complex characters, especially with Jyoti’s and Arun’s. I missed the whitespace – the larger canvas that might have better held and cradled the complexities and contradictions portrayed – and for this reason alone, some of the turns in the plot may have come across as somewhat simplistic and not-so-believable. Yet, a tight cadence was necessary to keep the intensity and tension of the storyline; so, achieving a fine balance was undoubtedly no mean task.

My heartfelt kudos go to director Agastya Kohli and the entire cast and crew of Kanyadaan, for taking on this challenging subject and play, and for orchestrating yet another thoughtful production for the Seattle Indian diaspora.

Cross-posted from Pratidhwani

Written by: Shahana Dattagupta, May 24th 2010

Daughters of Empire: A Memoir of a Year in Britain and Beyond

admin — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Jane Satterfield

Demeter Press

The poet and essayist Jane Satterfield writes a hauntingly discontinuous prose-poem about a sort of exile. To those of us with dual citizenship—or, perhaps, to those for whom home is two places, neither tidily reconcilable with the other—Daughters of Empire speaks poignantly to the longing for connection between past and present, mother and daughter, literary inspiration, and career frustration.

The author here teases us with the possibility of a conventional narrative of exile: what will happen when a woman who spent most of her formative years in the United States becomes pregnant and has a child while being cast aside by a prospective employer and emotionally abandoned by a narcissistic and controlling husband? Will she find in this land of her birth and ancestry an escape from the soul-deadening labor of fixed-term teaching in American institutions, and instead find joy in teaching Larkin and Plath and Heaney and Hughes to students who understand and appreciate the value of being taught by a working poet? Will she find in the geography of her own imagination the spiritual bond to the Brontë sisters that she seeks?

Our relationship to place is similarly discontinuous, and home, whatever that means, is an ongoing negotiation. Satterfield’s narrator is unstuck in time, just as she is unstuck geographically, so we get poetically rich spots of memory: “I stand on Charlotte Brontë’s front steps, thinking I’m going to be sick,” she tells us on the first page—either a vertiginous reaction to this confrontation with her nineteenth-century literary forbearer, or perhaps a bit of first-trimester nausea. And then suddenly it’s several years earlier, and she’s a different sort of exile, not quite fitting in to this group of students or that literary community brought together in American college towns. And then she’s a punk, a Johnny Rotten, but with much more ambivalent feelings towards Queen and country.

And then she’s in Corby, a “piss hole in the dead heart of England” where she was born, traveling with her mother through a reconstruction of her own ancestry and her mother’s shared dual sense of place. But then, heartbreakingly, she’s starving emotionally and perhaps physically as a mother estranged from her husband, whose Fulbright Exchange, in the mid-1990s, was in part responsible for this year in England which serves as a potent but unstable center of this narrative.

Because of the evocative power of her memory and the clarity of her language, she draws the reader willingly into this vortex. And yet, she resists closure. Does she find career fulfillment? Can she bridge the imaginative/historical gaps and construct a satisfactory home? Can she free herself from this dreadful relationship? The memoir asks instead that we participate in her desires, in her lyrical remembrance, in her evocative moments that shuttle back and forth through time, woven together by her search for identity, for her discovery of home.

Written by: Rick Taylor, April 27th 2010

Violent Partners: A Breakthrough Plan for Ending the Cycle of Abuse

admin — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 09:00:00 +0000

By Linda G. Mills

Basic Books

Author Linda G. Mills is a scholar, lawyer, social worker, and the founder of the Center on Violence and Recovery at New York University. In Violent Partners, Mills challenges the tenets of the battered women’s movement. These basic principles held that: domestic abuse was caused by deeply rooted misogynist beliefs, which condoned violence against women; women were rarely violent; if women endured the abuse and didn’t leave, it was because they feared the consequences; and criminal action had to be taken against violent men.

Mills proposes a controversial breakthrough plan to end the cycle of violence, which includes counseling for violent couples who want to stay together, group counseling, and healing circles. The author believes that the criminalization of domestic abuse has been unsuccessful in ending the cycle of violence and, in many instances, has only exacerbated the problem. Although Mills uses many compelling cases to support her arguments, she fails to give the reader a specific case to illustrate what it might have been like to be a victim in the late 1960s, before the women’s movement had championed the cause. This would have given the book a more balanced perspective.

The author also uses some statistics that give a skewed picture of violent women in intimate abuse cases. For instance, the author cites a U.S. Department of Justice-funded study, which has neither footnote nor name, showing that arrests in California for domestic violence between 1985 and 1995 grew by 37% for men and 446% for women. These figures were to illustrate the author’s claim that the number of violent women was dramatically increasing. However, there is no mention that this surge could be attributed to increased reporting by men or greater public awareness vis-à-vis domestic violence. In addition, these figures don’t give the reader a clear idea of the percentage of domestic violence cases that are actually perpetrated by women. In Family Violence in Canada: A Statistical Profile of 2004, published by the Canadian government, it states that “females are more likely to be victims of spousal violence (85% vs.15%),” a figure based on domestic abuse offenses reported to police.

Mills objects to the generalization that men are always the perpetrators and women are always the victims. She believes that both partners play a role in the dynamic of violence and that understanding this dynamic is key to stopping any recurrence. I believe that the author’s intention was to emphasize the importance of understanding the dynamic rather than pointing a finger at one gender, but unfortunately, what many may take away from the book is that women are just as violent as men. This, in turn, could seriously undermine the support for and financial well-being of the current system, which has undeniably saved tens of thousands of lives in the past thirty years.

The book is convincing in its explanation of who becomes violent and why, and the impact of domestic violence on future generations. Mills is also successful in showing the complexity of intimate abuse. What’s more, the author makes it abundantly clear that we now know a lot more about family-related violence than we did thirty years ago and that with our new wisdom, we should embrace new solutions.

I applaud the comprehensive approach that involves looking for new ways to stem violence in future generations. I also found the peacemaking and healing circles to be a promising and relatively inexpensive remedy, which could work in certain situations. However, I would only recommend this book to therapists, public health policy makers, and professionals working with victims of abuse and in the criminal justice system.

Written by: Heather Leighton, January 29th 2010

Never Make the Same Mistake Twice: Lessons On Love and Life Learned the Hard Way

admin — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:04:00 +0000

By Nene Leakes, Denene Millner

Simon & Schuster

Although I had never watched The Real Housewives of Atlanta, I was immediately drawn to Nene Leakes’ story even without knowing who she was. Once I opened this book, I did not put it down. Leakes' story is full of so much courage—growing up without her mother, being a single mother, surviving an abusive relationship and becoming a successful business woman on her own terms.

Never Make the Same Mistake Twice is written very conversationally—conveying Leakes' voice throughout the book. Leakes is unapologetic, taking pride in her decisions and the way she carries herself. While reading her memoir, I couldn't help but think: this woman rocks.

What I admired most about Leakes' autobiography is her frankness about how she survived the domestic abuse, which included a kidnapping incident. She bravely left in the middle of the night to protect herself and her young son. As a fellow survivor of abuse, I read Leakes' recount with tears in my eyes.

In part of the book, Leakes reveals her past work as an exotic dancer. While stripping is highly debated in the feminist community, Leakes divulges she did what she needed to do to support herself and her son. For Leakes, this job gave back her confidence after it had been damaged by the abuse. Even if you don't agree with her views, you have to admire her openness.

Since I knew I couldn't give a full review without watching at least an episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta, I turned on Bravo. I'm now a full addict, watching the episodes over and over with the On Demand channel. The Nene in the show is exactly the Nene in the book. In addition, the latest episodes even show Leakes working on the book, and traveling home to Atlanta with her co-writer Denene Millner. And yes, Leakes does spill some juicy details about the show in her book. But even people who have never seen The Real Housewives of Atlanta can appreciate this memoir, especially those who have gone through the same issues.

Written by: Elizabeth Stannard Gromisch, December 23rd 2009

Every F---ing Day of My Life

admin — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 18:17:00 +0000

Directed by Tommy Davis

HBO Documentary Films

Stark, appalling, and heartbreaking are all words that came to mind when I viewed Every F---ing Day of My Life. Every F---king Day of My Life depicts a woman’s last four days of freedom before being sentenced to ten years in prison for murdering her brutally abusive husband. The film, which follows Wendy Maldonado and her young sons, also bears witness to the resiliency of women and children who must survive within these dysfunctional unions.

The film opens with home video of a long-ago family outing, then cuts to the gut-wrenching 911 call that Wendy made the night she killed her husband, then cuts again to Wendy recounting her early days with her husband, Aaron. After marrying Aaron at age seventeen, Wendy, who is already aware of Aaron’s possessiveness, quickly realizes just how disturbed her young husband is. He becomes increasingly violent, frequently beating her and their four sons. Wendy endures the abuse for nineteen years before impulsively deciding to do away with her partner. She beats him to death with a hammer, caving his skull. Wendy’s eldest son, Randy, who participates solely out of a desire to protect his mother and younger brothers, is eventually charged and convicted of second-degree manslaughter.

Every F---ing Day of My Life serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of ignoring domestic violence. It is a documentary masterpiece due to its very simplicity; there are no voice-overs, no talking head interviews, no fancy cinematography to turn the film’s laser sharp focus away from its emotionally devastated subjects. Instead, the filmmaker cleverly intersperses home video footage (most of which was shot by Aaron) with the present-day activities in the Maldonado house.

As the Maldonados veer between a cheerful denial and a somber acceptance of their circumstances, they discuss the violence they endured at Aaron’s hands. The matter-of-fact, even jocular, tone the Maldonados use to discuss the unrelentingly cruel abuse is even more chilling than the crime scene photos presented at the beginning of the film. As Wendy shows off the only four teeth left in her upper jaw, exhibits the homemade artwork used to disguise the holes Aaron punched in the wall, and takes the film crew to the wooded “kill me” spot that Aaron regularly took her to, she makes an understated yet extraordinarily powerful statement about the chaos that intimate partner violence causes.

The extensive use of the home video footage highlights yet another reality about domestic violence: mainly, that it is perpetrated not by monsters, but by seemingly average men who are often careful not to let their true colors show to the outside world. As Aaron mugs for the camera, he appears almost freakishly normal. He doesn’t look like someone who would beat and terrorize his family for nearly two decades. Director Tommy Davis’ decision to use this footage is an excellent creative choice.

Every F---king Day of My Life also demonstrates how suffering prematurely ages people; as the film progresses, we see Wendy transform from an incandescently beautiful teenager to a worn, nearly haggard woman in early middle age. A teenage Randy, who is interviewed from county jail, also looks old beyond his years.

Every F---ing Day Of My Life should be required viewing for every teenager in America, as well as anyone who is likely to encounter a victim of domestic violence. This story could save lives.

** This film premieres on HBO December 14, 2009 at 10 p.m. ET/PT and will continue to _air throughout December.

Written by: Ebony Edwards-Ellis, December 13th 2009

Muslim Women Reformers: Inspiring Voices Against Oppression

admin — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 17:01:00 +0000

By Ida Lichter

Prometheus Books

Ida Lichter’s Muslim Women Reformers ambitiously highlights the work of Muslim women around the globe involving an array of interrelated issues, including lack of gender equity in education and the workplace, domestic violence, human trafficking, biased family law practices, and rape with impunity. Many of these problems stem from the socioeconomic inequality experienced globally by women of all backgrounds, and problems that transcend class and religious boundaries. In other instances, misogynist traditions have persisted because local and national authorities, in a gross affront to the majority of Muslims, pass abuses off as Islamic practices.

The book is organized by country, with the largest number of women representing Afghanistan, Iran, and Saudi Arabia, localities prominent in current U.S. political discourse. However, it is worth mentioning that the nations with the largest number of Muslims are actually Indonesia, India, and Pakistan. The reformers’ biographies are preceded by a very brief background section describing important historic events in the region. In terms of methodology, Lichter, a psychiatrist by training, does not give many specifics about her selection process or research methods.

The biographies are brief but moving; many of these women are literally risking their lives in order to work for change. Lichter also included biographies of a half dozen men, offering a hopeful sense that allies can help to transform a view of masculinity that allows the demeaning of women. The biographies are presented as summary reports without a lot of analysis; for someone unfamiliar with the issues at hand, this brevity can be misleading at times.

An encouraging aspect is the inclusion of transnational efforts to eradicate the practice of honor killings. This practice is not a teaching of Islam, but an example of the very worst patriarchal violence. Eliminating this practice requires cultural change backed by political will, and this work represents an area where the Qur’an and the Hadith (sayings of the prophet Muhammad) could eventually bring positive change. Those who justify honor killings may not give up “tradition” for a Western interpretation of human rights. However, reform could happen by relying on the early history of Islam, when Muhammad laid down harsh tribal customs in favor of practices that protected women in that historic context. In this light, the custom clearly is un-Islamic.

One omission felt problematic. The sections on Canada, France, and the U.S. lacked background pages. Creating this difference in the presentation of material seems only to aggravate existing dichotomies between North America and Europe and the rest of the world’s Muslims. Furthermore, the issues facing Muslims in these nations are complex and well worth an introduction. By neglecting to include background on France, the author assumes readers are familiar with the history of France and its former colonies, as well as the anti-Arab racism that plagues the country. (These issues were highlighted this summer, when France was again in the news for its laws against wearing hijab in public.)

The broad scope of Muslim Women Reformers is a weakness. By including women from so many localities, the author had to sacrifice depth of discussion, giving the book the dry feel of an introductory text. The stronger sections of the book are those with the most voices represented, and if I had been editor, I would have suggested Lichter develop that strength and focus the book on those nations.

Written by: Lisa Rand, November 24th 2009

Afraid to Go Home

admin — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 07:50:00 +0000

By Baden Hill

JB & ME Publishing

Afraid to Go Home tells the story of Cathy, a successful career woman who is the head of a large company’s HR Department, but, after two failed marriages, trapped in an abusive relationship with Fred. The book’s subtitle reads: “A novel about domestic violence drawn from the true stories of women who have been tormented at the hands of others.” While the author may have researched domestic violence, Afraid to Go Home paints a picture that misses key points regarding the central dynamics of abusive relationships, and perpetuates victim-blaming stereotypes in its portrayal of the characters.

Cathy Circe (a not-so-subtle reference to the Greek goddess who lured Odysseus’ crew to their destruction) is a rape survivor whose inability to cope with the trauma prevented her from being with her high school sweetheart (and “love of her life”), Chris. She is presented as having been irrevocably damaged by the attack. While it is important to acknowledge sexual violence has life-altering consequences, what comes across in the depiction of her character is the myth that rape survivors are so injured that they cannot relate to men in a healthy way. Cathy is positioned as doomed to enter abusive relationships because she feels she deserves to be hurt, confuses abuse with love, is driven to re-live the trauma by engaging in risky behaviour, and is incapable of recognizing the danger of her situation—beliefs that place the responsibility for violence on those who are the victims of it instead of those are its perpetrators.

Fred is an openly aggressive man who is violent on a daily basis, controlling, and beats and rapes Cathy regularly. Though not initially clear in its victim blaming representation, Fred’s character is one-dimensionally evil, and the reader is given no insight into how the relationship progressed to that point. The poorly explained relationship invites the reader to question Cathy—why does an otherwise smart and successful woman marry and stay with such a monster?—instead of exposing the complicated dynamics of abusive relationships that often involve a subtle and gradual progression of various forms of violence mixed with apologies, loving charm, regret, and promises to never hurt again. Because we’ve never known Fred to be a nice guy, the reader concludes Cathy is so broken that she can’t even recognize, and thus flee from, pure evil.

There are many other similarly problematic characterizations: the overweight secretary who responds to her wedding being called off by sleeping with her boss (who only complies out of pity) and living as a crazy cat lady in a messy house and women repeatedly getting on their knees to reward a guy for doing the right thing.

In Afraid to Go Home’s 415 pages there was enough room to explore the complexities of domestic violence, as well as develop a plot and characters that could shed some light on how perpetrators manage to lure in, manipulate, and control their victims. Instead, the book invites victim blaming and is full of stereotypical female characters. While it is nice the author didn’t give in to the temptation of having Cathy rescued by a prince on a white horse at the end, Afraid to Go Home is one of those books that means well, but actually does more harm than good.

Written by: Annette Przygoda, September 16th 2009

Erased: Missing Women, Murdered Wives

admin — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 09:27:00 +0000

By Marilee Strong

Jossey-Bass

When a crime is committed, the public wants to know why. In Erased, journalist Marilee Strong answers that question for a specific set of criminals she calls “eraser killers.” She outlines an in-depth profile of these killers hoping that the more the public knows about them, the more they will be caught and justice will be brought to their victims.

Strong started the journey to Erased while reporting on the disappearance of a pregnant woman in California named Laci Peterson. She covered Laci’s story through her disappearance to the conviction of her husband, Scott, for her murder and the murder of their unborn child. While researching other murders for the Peterson case, Strong noticed a psychological pattern between Scott and another killer who committed a strikingly similar crime more than fifty years earlier. This book is the result of the next five years of Strong’s research.

Erased covers more than fifty murders throughout the past century that fit the pattern of eraser killings, a form of intimate partner homicide that is committed almost exclusively by men, done in a carefully planned manner, which is often through bloodless means, in order to leave behind as little evidence as possible. The killers frame the murder to make it look like something happened that had nothing to do with them, and often try to make the body physically disappear as well. Eraser killers eliminate women, and sometimes children, in their lives simply because they no longer serve any purpose to them. The killers have no emotional attachment to their victims, considering them nothing more than a commodity. Most disturbingly, these men are often described as loving husbands right up until they day they kill. The women in their lives have no idea they are in danger until it is too late.

Strong credits the “unique psychology of men” with these murders and, in particular, a set of dangerous traits that psychologists have named the “Dark Triad” of personality: psychopathy, narcissism, and Machiavellianism. These traits lead eraser killers to believe they can literally get away with murder without anyone ever knowing. Ironically, it is also these traits that lead many to their downfall. Eraser killers can be so over confident that they make mistakes and overlook important details.

While it is interesting to know just where some of these killers went wrong, Strong occasionally takes those details too far. Her recounting of Laci Peterson’s murder becomes eerie when Strong describes exactly what Scott might have done to get away with it. Surprisingly, she goes into these specifics after telling the reader that many of these killers learn from each other as models, noting what worked for other killers and what pitfalls to avoid. With this in mind, many of the details Strong uses in Erased become uncomfortable to read. It makes one wonder how helpful the book is in bringing victims justice, and how helpful it could potentially be to a future eraser killer.

While Erased is disturbing on many levels, it is also thought provoking. For the majority of the book, Strong’s heart seems to be in the right place. In the conclusion, she offers recommendations on what the criminal justice system can do to better catch eraser killers. She focuses on closing loopholes that make eraser killers think they can get away with murder and that allow some of them to do just that. At the very least, Erased is a wake-up call that there is another, more disturbing, side to domestic homicide that deserves serious attention. Strong makes a very clear case that her profile and recommendations are worth considering.

Written by: Jill Hindenach, July 25th 2009