Blog Series

A while back my mother gave me a box of things from my childhood. It was filled to the brim with pictures, awards, certificates, and report cards. Among the proud academic treasures was a report card from second grade. I received all A’s, fairly good citizenship scores, and a D in homework. Despite that poor grade, I continued to do fairly well in school. The ‘D’ it seemed, was not very consequential for me. For Grace, another Black girl from Michigan, that was not the case.

Las Vegas, Nevada circa 1992.

I was 17 when I met him.  In the rooms of a 12-step program.  Scared. Alone. Confused. He was 28 and my sponsor’s boyfriend. Charming. Funny. Handsome. I didn’t realize I was being lured in until I was trapped.  Though that’s not what I would have called it then.  I was a kid. I thought I was in love.

The verbal abuse started first. A “bitch” here. A “whore” there.  A slow wearing down of my confidence.  An erosion of myself esteem.

As I strive to be an anti-racist, I keep reminding myself of something Brené Brown said: “I’m here to get it right, not be right.” I know I’ve absolutely got it wrong in a million different ways and will continue to do so. But I’m reminded by other folks also doing this work that making mistakes is part of the process. Indeed, making mistakes is how we know we’re doing the work.

There is a right of passage Black women go through before reaching adulthood – we realize that people may treat us like we’re twice our ages. Even before reaching adulthood, we’re aware that we have to be more responsible than other kids, and there will be times where we have to prove our innocence. For many of us, we were very young when we learned to fight, escape, and protect ourselves. Growing up, my loved ones prepared me for any and every adversity they thought I might face – even the ones they created. They knew, and I later learned, about the war against Black girls.

I worked at a state sexual violence coalition in the northeastern part of the United States for two years. I was beyond excited at the opportunity- my mother was a first-generation college student and my grandmother was not even able to complete her elementary education. In three generations, we went from migrant worker, to administrative assistant, to nationally recognized expert employed by a state coalition. This was an opportunity to advocate for the generations of my people harmed by colonization, racism, and xenophobia. To do the work our people and communities need- to push our issues to the top of a state agenda on issues of sexual violence. I believed in this organization, one whose work I had followed when I worked the frontlines providing direct services to survivors. One that spoke boldly of intersectionality, speaking truth to power, and dismantling systems of oppression so that we can all thrive. I believed this would be a place where I could finally do the work women like me, like my mother, like my grandmother needed.

I’m Christine Smith. I’m an enrolled member of the Rincon Band of Luiseno Indians, and descended from the Kashia Band of Pomo Indians. I’m the daughter of Kim and Weldon, stepdaughter of Jeff. I graduated from the University of California, Berkeley with a degree in Political Science and a minor in Native American Studies, and I have a Master’s in Public Administration from the University of San Francisco. For the last four years, I’ve worked as the Public Policy Coordinator at the California Partnership to End Domestic Violence. I’m a survivor of domestic violence. I’m a proud puppy and kitten mama. A queer woman. A soccer player. A quilter and crafter. Professional coach-in-training. Portland Thorns fan.

Domestic violence has been defined as a pattern of coercive, aggressive, and violent behavior and California laws make it a “crime” to harm an intimate partner. Though men are survivors of abuse, it is women and girls who have been disproportionately impacted for centuries by this epidemic of global violence, rooted in a hierarchical, oppressive society that continues to create societal attitudes and beliefs about how intimate partners should be treated. Racial injustice contributed to this hierarchy and negatively impacts the fight against domestic violence and intimate partner abuse so this is a good moment to examine policies, procedures and historical practices and the way in which they impact black families.

Describe the ways you have been working to make your organization/the field more equitable. What drives your work?

How I work to maximize equity is through teaching accountability. I understand that oppression is in our history, in systems, and in this field. I abandoned the checklist approach to embrace what I call a culture shift. Improving equity is not going to happen with a once a year conference or webinar. Becoming more equitable is a lifetime commitment to daily measurable practices. I have helped organizations in the Central Valley understand that the commitment required is ongoing. I recently had a colleague share an accomplishment that she achieved of getting a position funded to do advocacy for farmworkers. I reminded her that the next goal was to elevate that position to a management level. We can’t just create positions rooted in diversity; we have to elevate them. That’s the difference between a checklist approach and a culture shift.

There have been a few pivotal moments in my life when leaving was me taking back my power. The first time, I was 21 and finally left a violent relationship that started the summer before my junior year in high school. Most recently, I quietly departed from the DV movement. I hadn’t reflected on the significance of my soundless exit until May 26th when I read a CNN article about Amy Cooper, who exercised her white privilege to call the police with a fabricated story of being attacked by a Black man because he had the audacity to ask that she adhere to the Central Park rules and place her dog on a leash.

As the brutality and racism of the murder of George Floyd and countless other Black people over the course of the last year reverberates around the world, I feel an overwhelming sense of remembrance. I feel triggered and greatly saddened because these issues are not new. They feel familiar…the trauma, the anger, the fear, frustration and desperation….all of it. I had put it away in the box that I call “the 70’s” and moved on with my life. Things were crazy back then.

*The author of this piece chose the pseudonym Alan to protect against retaliation.

I remember standing in an auditorium in Dallas, Texas a few years ago with over 1,000 attendees at an international conference on intimate partner violence. I remember looking around at the predominantly white men and women in suits who proudly placed their hands upon their hearts as they recited the Pledge of Allegiance. “I’m not in California anymore!” I joked to myself as I suppressed every urge I had to run past the walls of suits, the badges, and the elaborate displays of morning pastries and coffee stations – all while an American Idol contestant sang the “Star Spangled Banner” on stage.