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DOMESTIC
VIOLENCE
INTERVENTION, PREVENTION,
POLICIES, AND SOLUTIONS
RICHARD L. DAVIS
This book contains information obtained from authentic and highly regarded sources. Reprinted
material is quoted with permission, and sources are indicated. A wide variety of references are
listed. Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author
and the publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or for the conse‑
quences of their use.
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transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
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HV6626.2.D394 2008
362.82’920973‑‑dc22 2007045310
Preface xiii
Acknowledgments xxi
Author xxiii
1 Introduction 1
Background 2
Gender Equality 3
An Unnecessary Schism 4
Ideologically Held Beliefs Become Reality 5
ἀ e Criminalization of All Acts of Family Conflict 6
A Good Idea Gone Bad 6
What Is Domestic Violence? 7
ἀ e Children 8
ἀ e 21st Century 8
ἀ e Beat Goes On 10
An Objective View 10
A Chance To Be Heard 11
Discussion 12
vii
4 Dating Abuse 47
ἀ e Massachusetts Constitution 47
Article I 47
Article I 47
Valentine’s Day in America’s Hometown 48
An Overview 49
Battering Behavior 50
Dating Violence or Family Conflict 50
Risk Factors for Dating Abuse 51
One-Solution-Fits-All 52
Women’s Rights Research 52
Jane Doe 54
Definition 55
Liz Claiborne Inc. 56
Findings 57
Power and Control Issues 58
Emotional Abuse 59
It’s Time to Talk Day 59
Keeping the Silence 61
Is ἀ ere a Gender Agenda? 61
Gender Symmetry 63
ἀ e Violence Against Women Act 64
Juvenile Violent and Non-Violent Crime Rate 66
10 In Memoriam 185
Introduction 185
Implicit Bias 185
ἀ e 2003 Massachusetts Domestic Violence Homicide Report 186
ἀ e Silent Voices 186
January 14, 2003 186
February 7, 2003 187
March 25, 2003 187
March 31, 2003 187
April 19, 2000 187
April 19, 2003 187
June 1, 2003 188
June 11, 2003 188
June 16, 2003 188
June 26, 2003 188
June 29, 2003 188
July 23, 2003 189
October 2, 2003 189
October 28, 2003 189
November 2, 2003 189
November 26, 2003 189
December 1, 2003 190
Implicit Bias 190
Lessons Ignored 191
Domestic Violence Homicide Is Preventable 192
Conclusion 193
Discussion Questions 194
12 Afterword 207
Introduction 207
ἀ e Resolution 208
Resolution 208
ἀ inking about ἀ inking 210
“Advancing the Federal Research Agenda on Violence
Against Women” 211
“ἀ e Exposure Reduction or Backlash? ἀ e Effects of
Domestic Violence Resources on Intimate Partner
Homicide” 211
Controlling Violence against Women: A Research
Perspective on the 1994 VAWA’s Criminal Justice Impacts 211
Intimate Partner Violence (IPV): Overview 212
Conclusion 213
References 215
Recommendations 255
Recommendation One 255
Recommendation Two 257
Recommendation ἀ ree 257
Recommendation Four 259
Recommendation Five 260
Recommendation Six 261
Recommendation Seven 261
Recommendation Eight 263
Recommendation Nine 263
ἀ e Family Violence Act 263
Recommendation Ten 264
Unaware of the Data? 264
Index 281
Rigorous inquiry into violence against women is precluded when scholars fail
to distinguish among what constitutes an act of violence, abuse or battering.
—Kruttschnitt, McLaughlin and Petrie, p. 56
Errors of fact follow from the failure to make distinctions among types of
violence.
—Michael P. Johnson, p. 1129
ἀ e lack of agreement in defining family violence has led to confusion and disar-
ray in attempts to determine factors that cause or contribute to family violence.
—Harvey Wallace, p. 3
In sum, the labeling of all acts of physical aggression as violent can have unin-
tended social implications.
—K. Daniel O’Leary, p. 8
xv
Certainly, all violence is wrong regardless who the perpetrator is. But domes-
tic violence is not one person pushing another person one time. Domestic vio-
lence occurs when there is an ongoing pattern of fear, intimidation and violent
assault [italics added] (Soler, 2007).
I agree that the definition offered by Soler should be the accepted defini-
tion of domestic violence, but Soler knows that it is not. ἀ e FVPF website,
similar to the vast majority of the nationally recognized domestic violence
websites, agrees that not one of these organizations, including Soler’s FVPF,
believes the above Soler definition is or should be the accepted definition of
domestic violence. ἀ e FVPF “Get the Facts” section (http://www.endabuse.
org/resources/facts/) documents domestic victims.
As their websites document, not a single domestic violence organiza-
tion—or any state—accepts the Soler definition as the definition of domestic
violence. In fact, nowhere on her own FVPF website does it appear that Sol-
er’s own organization accepts the Soler definition as the definition of domes-
tic violence.
What is also very troubling for scholars and researchers (as presented in
the Soler “Backlash Study” article on the FVPF website) is that both Klein and
Soler appear to have disagreed with Capaldi and then challenged data in her
study after reading only media reports about it. It appears that neither Klein
nor Soler had actually read the Capaldi study, as it had yet to be released.
ἀ e NVAWS documents that 1.3 million women and 835,000 men are physi-
cally assaulted annually by intimate partners in domestic violence incidents
(Tjaden and ἀ oennes, 2000b, p. iv). Forty percent of women and 53.8% of
surveyed men report they were physically assaulted by an adult caretaker as
a child (p. 35).
Data from the NVAWS are routinely accepted by nationally recognized
domestic violence organizations as the definition of domestic violence and
NVAWS domestic violence data often appear on their websites and in their
literature.
It is my contention that the reason there is so much confusion and dis-
array surrounding domestic violence is due to the misleading depiction of
the dynamics of abuse portrayed by Soler, the majority of domestic violence
organizations and most public policy makers.
As O’Leary notes above and this book will document, the legislating and
labeling of all acts of family physical aggression and emotional distress as
acts of domestic violence have had unintended negative social implications.
While there is variance among the states concerning the legal definition of
domestic violence, none of their deἀnitions match that proffered by Soler. Most
of the states’ legal definitions of domestic violence are similar to those of the
state of Delaware, the home state of Senator Joseph R. Biden, Jr. Delaware law
defines domestic violence as the occurrence of one or more of the following
acts of “abuse” between “family” or “household members”:
The Experts
How can there be any domestic violence experts if the experts refuse to agree
just what “it” is they are agreeing or disagreeing about? How are physicians,
nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, family counselors, educators, social work-
ers, attorneys, judges, law enforcement, domestic violence offenders and most
importantly domestic violence victims going to become aware of the dynamics
and dangers of domestic violence when so many experts offer very different
theories and definitions to our public policy makers (Wallace, 2003)?
Without consistency of definition, how can experts present interven-
tions, prevention programs, policies and solutions to those in need? Most
experts accept their individually held theories as fact and many often ignore
or minimize the theories of others. ἀ is lack of agreement has ceased or
slowed the glimmer of hope for an emerging consensus regarding domestic
violence as the 20th century closed (Dobash and Dobash, 1979, 1992; Dutton,
2006; Mills, 2003; Young, 1999).
I believe, as Soler writes in her article, that the problem is with the deἀni-
tion of domestic violence. Harvey Wallace clearly defines the dilemma faced
by laypersons and scholars alike: “How does one accurately study or research
a phenomenon if a definition cannot be agreed on because the definition of
any act both sets limits and focuses research within certain boundaries?”
(Wallace, 2002, p.3).
ἀ e process of placing the entitlements of one group of victims—adult
heterosexual women—above all others has caused the majority of domestic
violence organizations and public policy makers, as this book will document,
to minimize, marginalize or ignore sibling, same-sex and elder abuse, and
the victimization of adult heterosexual males at the hands of adult hetero-
sexual females.
ἀ e claim that one person is the primary victim (Tjaden and ἀ oennes,
2000b) in effect reduces the other victims to a minor victimization status and
minimizes the needs of those “minor” victims, proving to be detrimental
to all victims as it has replaced a growing consciousness and concern about
family violence with a schism over gender symmetry and primary victimiza-
tion (Straus and Medeiros, 2002).
Conclusion
ἀ e greatest obstacle to the discovery of the truth is the illusion that the truth
has already been discovered. ἀ at being said, I do believe that the truth lies in
evidence-based empirical studies. I believe that domestic violence is a prob-
lem for both females and males. However, it is not my intent to present only
studies that favor my conclusion; I hope that this book in general and the
reference section in particular will be used by domestic violence advocates
and public policy makers to discover what they believe to be the truth.
It should be the collective goal of researchers, domestic violence advo-
cates, public policy makers and in fact anyone concerned about the issue of
domestic violence to research and read all of the studies concerning domestic
violence before they conclude that any single theory is absolutely right and
everyone else’s theory is absolutely wrong.
To accomplish this, readers will need to set aside, at least temporarily, the
fact that they believe they have already discovered the truth concerning the
cause and consequence of domestic violence.
Author: E. M. Delafield
Language: English
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1922
TO C. A. DAWSON-SCOTT IN
AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION OF
THE NOVELIST AND THE WOMAN.
I
VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN
(i)
The ship swung slowly away from the side of the wharf. Several
people on board then said, “Well, we’re off at last!” to several other
people who had only been thinking of saying it.
Owen Quentillian remembered another, longer, sea-voyage taken by
himself at an early age. Far more clearly he remembered his arrival
at St. Gwenllian.
It was that which he wanted to recall, aware as he was of the
necessity for resuming a connection that had almost insensibly
lapsed for several years.
He deliberately let his mind travel backwards, visualizing himself, a
disconsolate, shivering morsel, being taken away from Papa and
Mamma at the very station itself, and put into an open pony-cart
beside Miss Lucilla Morchard.
The conversation between them, as far as he could recollect it, had
run upon strangely categorical lines.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Canon Morchard’s daughter. You can call me Lucilla.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m fifteen, but you shouldn’t ask grown-up persons their age.”
“Oh, are you a grown-up person?”
“Of course I am. My mother is dead, and I look after the house and
the children, and now I’m going to look after you as well.”
Lucilla had smiled very nicely as she said this.
“How many children are there?”
“Three, at home. My eldest brother is at school.”
“What are the names of the other ones?”
“Valeria and Flora and Adrian. Valeria and Flora are sometimes
called Val and Flossie.”
He had discovered afterwards that they were seldom called anything
else, except by their father.
“Why don’t Papa and Mamma come in this little carriage too?”
“Because there wouldn’t have been room. They will come in the
brougham, later on.”
“They won’t go back to India without saying good-bye first, will they?”
he asked wistfully.
He had known for a long time that Papa and Mamma were going
back to India and leaving him at St. Gwenllian.
“No, I promise you they won’t do that,” had said Lucilla seriously.
Owen had felt entirely that her word was one to be relied upon. Very
few grown-up persons gave him that feeling.
He remembered extraordinarily little about the house at St.
Gwenllian. It was large, and cold, and there were a good many
pictures on the walls, but the only two rooms of which he retained a
mental photograph were the schoolroom, and the Canon’s library.
He saw the latter room first.
Lucilla had taken him there at once.
He remembered the books against the wall—numbers and numbers
of books—and the big black writing table, with a small bowl of violets
next to a pile of papers, and above the writing-table a finely-carved
ivory figure, crucified upon a wooden cross, set in a long plaque of
pale-green velvet.
Lucilla had seemed to be disappointed because her father was out.
“He said he did so want to be here to welcome you himself, but he is
always very busy. Some one sent for him, I think.”
The youthful Owen Quentillian had cared less than nothing for the
non-appearance of his future host and tutor. The prospect of the
schoolroom tea had touched him more nearly.
But the schoolroom tea had turned out to be a sort of nightmare.
Even now, he could hardly smile at the recollection of that dreadful
meal.
Eventually Val and Flossie had resolved themselves into good-
natured, cheerful little girls, and Adrian into a slightly spoilt and
rather precocious little boy, addicted to remarks of the type hailed as
“wonderful” in the drawing-room and “affected humbug” in the
schoolroom.
But on that first evening, Val and Flossie had been two monsters
with enormous eyes that stared disapprovingly, all the time, straight
at Owen Quentillian and nobody else. Adrian had been an utterly
incomprehensible, rather malignant little creature, who had asked
questions.
“Can you see colours for each day of the week?”
Quentillian wondered whether he had looked as much alarmed as he
had felt, in his utter bewilderment.
“I think Monday is blue, and Tuesday light green, and Wednesday
dark green,” Adrian had then proclaimed, triumphantly, and casting
his big brown eyes about as though to make sure that his three
sisters had heard the enunciation of his strange creed.
“Adrian is not a bit like other little boys,” one of them had then said,
with calm pride.
Owen Quentillian, unconscious of irony, had ardently hoped that she
spoke truly.
Adrian had pinched him surreptitiously during tea, and had laughed
in a way that made Owen flush when they had asked him what India
was like and he had answered “I don’t know.”
He had thought the thick bread-and-butter nasty, and wondered if
there was never any cake. A vista of past teas, with sugared cakes
from the drawing-room, especially selected by himself, and brought
to his own little table on the back veranda by the Ayah, made him
choke.
There had been a dreadful moment when he had snatched at the
horrid mug they had given him and held it before his face for a long,
long time, desperately pretending to drink, and not daring to show
his face.
Lucilla, seated at the head of the table, had offered the others more
tea, but she had said nothing to the little strange boy, and he still felt
grateful to her.
The miserable, chaotic jumble that was all that his mind retained, of
interminable slices of bread-and-butter that tasted like sawdust, of
thick, ugly white china, of hostile or mocking gazes, of jokes and
allusions in which he had no share, all came to a sudden end when
he had given up any hope of ever being happy again so long as he
lived.
Canon Morchard had come into the room.
And, magically, Val and Flossie had turned into quiet, insignificant
little girls, looking gently and trustfully at their father, and no longer
staring curiously at Owen Quentillian, and Adrian had become a
wide-eyed, guileless baby, and the thick bread-and-butter and the
ugly china no longer existed at all.
Only Lucilla had undergone no transformation.
She said “This is Owen Quentillian, Father,” in a matter-of-fact tone
of voice.
“I know, my child, I know.”
His hand, large and protecting, had grasped the boy’s hand, and
after a moment he stooped and put his lips gently to Owen’s
forehead.
Quentillian remembered a presence of general benignity, a strangely
sweet smile that came, however, very rarely, a deep voice, and an
effect of commanding height and size.
Memory could not recapture any set form of words, but Quentillian
endeavoured, whimsically, to recast certain speeches which he felt
to be permeated with the spirit of the Canon.
“My dear little boy, I hope you may come to feel this as home. We
shall all of us endeavour to make it so. Lucilla here is my little
housekeeper—ask her for anything that you want. Valeria—my
tomboy. She and you will have some grand romps together. Flora is
younger; nearer your own age, perhaps. Flora plays the piano, and
we hope that she may show great feeling for Art, by and bye. Little
Adrian, I am sure, has already made friends with you. I call him the
Little Friend of all the World. There are some very quaint fancies
under this brown mop, but we shall make something out of them one
of these days—one of these days.”
Some such introduction there had certainly been. The Canon had
been nothing if not categorical, and Quentillian could fancifully
surmise in him a bewilderment not untinged with resentment had his
Valeria one day tired of being a tomboy, and elected to patronize the
piano, or Flora suddenly become imbued with a romping spirit, to the
detriment of her artistic propensities.
But the Canon’s children had always refrained from any volte-face
calculated to disconcert their parent. Quentillian was almost sure that
all of them, except Lucilla, had been afraid of him—even Adrian, on
whom his father had lavished a peculiar cherishing tenderness.
Quentillian could remember certain sharp, stern rebukes, called forth
by Valeria’s tendency to untimely giggles, or Flora’s infantile tears, or
his own occasional sulks and obstinacy under the new régime. But
he could only once remember Adrian in disgrace, and so abysmal
had been the catastrophe, that imagination was unneeded for
recalling it clearly.
Adrian had told a lie.
Quentillian re-lived the terrible episode.
“Which of you children took a message for me from Radly
yesterday? Not you, Lucilla?”
“No, father.”
“Mrs. Radly died last night.” The Canon’s face was suffused. “She
asked for me all yesterday, and Radly actually left her in order to find
some way of sending me a message. I hear now that he met ‘one of
the St. Gwenllian children’ and sent an urgent summons which was
never delivered. Which was never delivered! Good Heavens,
children, think of it! I was here, in our own home-circle, enjoying a
pleasant evening reading aloud, when that woman was dying there
in the farm, craving for the help and comfort that I, her shepherd and
pastor, could and should have given her.”
He covered his face with his hand and groaned aloud.
“In all the years of my ministry,” he said slowly, “I have never had a
more bitter blow. And dealt me by one of my own household!
Children,” his voice boomed suddenly terrible, “which of you received
Radly’s message yesterday?”
Quentillian, in the retrospect, felt no surprise at the absence of any
competition in laying claim to the implied responsibility.
At last Lucilla said tentatively:
“Val? Flora?”
“I never saw Radly at all, yesterday, nor any other day,” said Val, her
brown eyes wide open and fixed straight upon her father.
Flora’s little, pretty face was pale and scared.
“It wasn’t me. No one ever gave me any message.”
Her voice trembled as though she feared to be disbelieved.
“Owen?” said the Canon sternly.
“No, sir.”
“Adrian?” his voice softened.
“No, father.”
The Canon hardly appeared to listen to Adrian’s answer. His hand
was on the little boy’s brown curls, in the fond, half-absent, gesture
habitual to him.
He faced the children, and his eye rested upon Owen Quentillian.
“If any one of you,” he said sternly and slowly, “has been betrayed
into telling me a lie, understand that it is not yet too late for full
confession. Selfish heedlessness cannot be judged by its terrible
consequences, and if I spoke too strongly just now, it was out of the
depths of my own grief and shame. The forgetfulness was bad—very
bad—but that I can forgive. A lie, I can not forgive. It is not too late.”
His face was white and terrible as he gazed with strained eyes at the
children.
Little Flora began to cry, and Lucilla put her arm round her.
“Understand me, children, denial is perfectly useless. I know that
message was given to one of you, and that it was not delivered, and
it is simply a question of hours before I see Radly and obtain from
him the name of the child to whom the message was given. I accuse
no one of you, but I implore the culprit to speak out. Otherwise,” he
hit the table with his clenched fist, and it seemed as though lightning
shot from his blazing eyes, “otherwise I shall know that there dwells
under my roof a liar and a coward.”
Quentillian could hear still the scorn that rang in that deep, vibrant
voice, terrifying the children.
Not one of them spoke.
And the Canon had gone out of the room with anguish in his eyes.
The nursery court-martial that followed was held by Lucilla.
“Flossie, it couldn’t have been you, because you stayed in all
yesterday with your cold. Owen and Val were out in the afternoon?”
“We went to see the woman with the new twins,” said Val,
indignantly. “We never met anyone the whole way, did we, Owen?”
“No.”
Owen Quentillian had known all the time what was coming. He knew,
with the terrible, intimate knowledge of the nursery, that Adrian was
the only one of the Canon’s children who did not always speak the
truth.
Apparently Lucilla, also, knew.
She said “Oh, Adrian,” in a troubled, imploring voice.
“I didn’t,” said Adrian, and burst into tears.
“I knew it was Adrian,” said little Flora. “I saw Radly coming up the
lane very fast, I saw him out of the night-nursery window, and I saw
Adrian, too. I knew it was Adrian, all the time.”
None of the children was surprised.
Adrian, confronted with their take-it-for-granted attitude, ceased his
mechanical denials.
The preoccupation of them all, was Canon Morchard.
“It’ll be less bad if you tell him yourself than if Radly does,” Owen
Quentillian pointed out.
“Of course, it makes it much worse having told him a lie,” Val said
crudely, “but perhaps he didn’t much notice what you said. I’m sure
he thought it was Owen, all the time.”
How much better if it had been Owen, if it had been any one of them,
save the Canon’s best-loved child, his youngest son!
“You must come and tell him at once,” Lucilla decreed—but not
hopefully.
“I can’t. You know what he said about a liar and a coward under his
roof.”
Adrian cried and shivered.
“He wasn’t angry the time I broke the clock,” said Flora. “He took me
on his knee and only just talked to me. I didn’t mind a bit.”
“But you hadn’t told a story,” said the inexorable Val.
They all knew that there lay the crux of the matter.
Quentillian could see the circle of scared, perplexed faces still—
Lucilla, troubled, but unastonished, keeping a vigilant hold on Adrian
all the time, Val, frankly horrified and full of outspoken predictions of
the direst description, Flossie in tears, stroking and fondling Adrian’s
hand with the tenderest compassion. He even visualized the pale,
squarely built, little flaxen-haired boy that had been himself.
They could not persuade Adrian to confess.
At last Lucilla said: “If you don’t tell him, Adrian, then I shall.”
And so it had been, because Canon Morchard, re-entering the
schoolroom, had, with a penetration to which his children were
accustomed, instantly perceived the tears and the terror on Adrian’s
face.
“What is it, little lad? Have you hurt yourself?”
The kind, unsuspicious concern in his voice, as he held out his hand!
Quentillian was certain that a pause had followed the enquiry—
Adrian’s opportunity, conceded by Lucilla, even while she knew, as
they all did, that he would take no advantage of it.
Then Lucilla had told.
Quentillian’s thoughts went off at a tangent, dwelling for the first time,
with a certain surprised admiration, upon Lucilla’s resolute, almost
matter-of-fact performance of her painful and alarming task.
Canon Morchard had been incredulous at first, and Lucilla had
steadily repeated, and reiterated again and again, the dreadful truth.
A black time had followed.
It assumed the proportions of a twelve-month, in the retrospect.
Could it have extended over a week? Strangely enough, Quentillian
could not recall the exact fate of Adrian, but he knew that the Canon
first fulminated words of wrath and scorn, and at last had actually
broken down, tears streaming down his furrowed face, and that the
sight of this unrestrained display of suffering had caused the boy
Owen to creep from the room, with the strange, sick feeling of one
who had witnessed an indecency.
All the children except Lucilla, who indeed scarcely counted as one
of them, had avoided Canon Morchard in the ensuing days. They
had crept about the house silently, and at meals no one spoke until
the Canon had left the room. Owen Quentillian, playing with a ball in
the passage and inadvertently bouncing it against the closed study
door, had been suddenly confronted by the Canon, and the look of
grief and horror fixed upon that handsome face had rendered any
spoken rebuke for levity unnecessary.
After all, they had left an impression, those Morchards, all of them,
Quentillian reflected.
Lucilla had been calm, matter-of-fact, competent—perhaps a little
inhuman. Val, impetuous, noisy, inclined to defiance, yet frankly
terrified of her father. Flossie—impossible to think of her as Flora,
unless the name was uttered in the Canon’s full, deep tones—surely
the prettiest of the three, gentler than Val, less self-assured than
Lucilla, timid only with her father. Adrian, of course, did not speak the
truth. His contemporaries had known it, although Canon Morchard
had not realized the little boy’s habitual weakness. But then he had
never realized that the children were afraid of him.
Why had they all been afraid of him?
Quentillian decided that it must have been because of his own
phenomenal rectitude, his high standard of honour, and above all
and especially, his deep, fundamental sense of religion.
Canon Morchard, undoubtedly, lived “in the presence of God.” Even
the little boy Owen had known that, and, thinking backwards,
Quentillian was convinced of it still.
He felt curious to see the Canon again. David Morchard had said to
him in Mesopotamia: “Go and see him. They’ve none of them
forgotten you, and they’ll be glad of first-hand news. I’ve only been
home once in five years.”
The shrug of his shoulders had seemed to Quentillian expressive.
But evidently David had judged his family correctly. The Canon had
written and invited his old pupil to stay with him.
“It will not only be joy untold to receive news of our dear
lad, David, but a real pleasure to us all to welcome you