Home Safe Home: Housing Solutions for Survivors of Intimate Partner Violence 9780813585871

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Home Safe Home

Violence against Women and Children Judy L. Postmus, Series Editor Millions of women and children are affected by violence across the globe. Gender-­based violence affects individuals, families, communities, and policies. Our new series includes books written by experts from a wide range of disciplines including social work, sociology, health, criminal justice, education, history, and women’s studies. A unique feature of the series is the collaboration between academics and community practitioners. The primary author of each book in most cases is a scholar, but at least one chapter is written by a practitioner, who draws out the practical implications of the academic research. Topics will include physical and sexual violence; psychological, emotional, and economic abuse; stalking; trafficking; and childhood maltreatment, and will incorporate a gendered, feminist, or womanist analysis. Books in the series are addressed to an audience of academics and students, as well as to practitioners and policymakers. Hilary Botein and Andrea Hetling, Home Safe Home: Housing Solutions for Survivors of Intimate Partner Violence

Home Safe Home Housing Solutions for Survivors of Intimate Partner Violence

HILARY BOTEIN AND ANDREA HETLING

RUTGERS UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW BRUNSWICK, NEW JERSEY, AND LONDON

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­P ublication Data Names: Botein, Hilary, 1965­–­author. | Hetling, Andrea, 1971–­author. Title: Home safe home : housing solutions for survivors of intimate partner violence / Hilary Botein and Andrea Hetling. Description: New Brunswick, New Jersey : Rutgers University Press, 2016. | Series: Violence against women and children | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN | ISBN 9780813585857 (hardback) | ISBN 9780813585840 (pbk.) | ISBN 9780813585864 (e-­book (epub)) | ISBN 9780813585871 (e-­book (Web PDF)) Subjects: LCSH: Abused women—­Housing—­United States. | Family violence—­United States. | Women—­Violence against—­United States. | United States—­Social policy. | BISAC: SOCIAL SCIENCE / Social Work. | SOCIAL SCIENCE / Women’s Studies. | POLITICAL SCIENCE / Public Policy / Social Services & Welfare. | SOCIAL SCIENCE / Violence in Society. SOCIAL SCIENCE / Poverty & Homelessness. Classification: LCC HV1445 .B68 2016 | DDC 363.5/9—­dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/ A British Cataloging-­in-­P ublication record for this book is available from the British Library. Copyright © 2016 by Hilary Botein and Andrea Hetling Epilogue copyright © 2016 by Carol Corden All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. Visit our website: http://rutgerspress.rutgers.edu Manufactured in the United States of America

For our families

CONTENTS

Preface and Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction

1

PA RT O N E

Why Long-­Term Housing for Survivors of Intimate Partner Violence? 1

“Why Doesn’t She Leave?” Intimate Partner Violence and Housing Instability

2

13

“How Does Housing Help?” A “ServicesLight” Long-­Term Housing Model

25

PA RT T WO

The Current Policy and Service Environment: How Did We Get Here? 3

First Stop: Emergency Shelters and Transitional Programs

4

43

Mismatch between U.S. Social Policy and Intimate Partner Violence

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PA RT TH R E E

An Evolving Approach: Long-­Term Housing 5

National Overview: Legislative Response and Program Variations

79

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v i i i C ontents

6

Developing Program Theory and Goals: Long-­Term Housing with Services

7

93

Survivor Perspectives on Program Theory and Models

105

PA RT F O U R

Next Steps? 8

Moving Forward: Research and Policy

125

Epilogue: A Practitioner’s Perspective

133

CAROL CORDEN

Appendix: Methods

143

Notes

151

Bibliography

155

Index

169

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We met in January 2006 as two brand-­new, tenure-­track assistant professors at the University of Connecticut, Department of Public Policy. It is a small department with a rigorous and growing Masters of Public Administration program, with a nationally ranked focus in public finance and budgeting. We connected over our common interest areas, somewhat unrelated to the strength of the department, and our junior status. We felt lucky as our relationship as supportive colleagues grew into a great opportunity for collaborative research. Hilary’s focus and expertise in homelessness and housing policy and Andrea’s in intimate partner violence and income support policy were perfect complements as we planned and embarked on a research agenda that examined long-­term housing for IPV survivors. In the fall of 2006, we began our case study of Prudence Crandall’s Rose Hill Program. We both left the University of Connecticut in the summer of 2007 and went on to other opportunities, as academics often do. Hilary accepted a tenure-­track position at the School of Public Affairs at Baruch College, CUNY, and Andrea accepted one at the Bloustein School of Planning and Public Policy at Rutgers University–­New Brunswick. We remained in close contact while finishing articles on the Rose Hill project and afterwards as well to discuss life in academia—­particularly as women and new mothers—­as we both moved on to other, independent research projects. In the fall of 2012, we got another opportunity to collaborate. New Destiny Housing, a nonprofit organization in New York City, was interested in working with researchers to examine their new building in the Bronx, The Anderson, our second case study in the book. We jumped at the chance to work together again. While working on this project, one of

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P reface and A cknowledgments

Andrea’s colleagues, Judy Postmus, a faculty member at Rutgers School of Social Work and Director of the Center on Violence Against Women and Children, reached out to Andrea about writing a book for a new series by Rutgers University Press, and Andrea reached out to Hilary. We thank Judy Postmus for approaching us; it has been a challenging and rewarding process, and we are thrilled to have the ability to share our research and thoughts with a broader audience. Our work is applied, and sharing it with students, advocates, policymakers, practitioners, and the interested public is important to both of us. We thank our editors at Rutgers University Press, Katie Keernan and Kimberly Guinta, who provided clear guidance and patient support as we navigated our new endeavor. Our external reviewers, Taryn Lindhorst, from the University of Washington, and Charlene Baker, from the University of Hawaii, provided detailed and thorough comments that made this book a stronger and more rigorous manuscript. We also thank Tamara Swedberg, an Instructional Technology Specialist at Rutgers University Bloustein School of Planning and Public Policy, for her assistance in designing and configuring the figures in the book. Reflecting on the research projects that are the foundation of this book, we have a number of others to thank. Both undergraduate and graduate students have worked with us as research assistants on the New Destiny project. Kenya Graham, Sonia Gupta, Sai Khisty, Rachel Kim, Annelisa Steeber, and Miriam Woodward assisted with literature reviews, website and document searches, interview transcriptions, and administrative tasks. Amy Dunford, a graduate student at Rutgers University Bloustein School, assisted in the final stages of manuscript preparation, and her careful and meticulous edits were invaluable. Two students deserve a multitude of thanks, Jennifer Proto, an alumna of the University of Connecticut Master’s of Public Policy Program, and Gretchen Hoge, a doctoral candidate at Rutgers University’s School of Social Work. Jennifer was our sole research assistant at the University of Connecticut while we were researching Rose Hill. Jennifer coordinated focus groups, took notes during the sessions, transcribed audio recordings, and conducted literature reviews. Her attention to detail and enthusiasm for the project were integral to the process. Gretchen worked with us on the New Destiny project and was solely responsible for the Spanish language component of the project. She translated all forms and instruments, conducted



P reface and A cknowledgments

xi

interviews with the Spanish-­speaking resident, transcribed and translated interviews, and assisted with coding. Her expertise in both the language and culture strengthened and broadened the scope of the project. The book and our writing process have benefited immensely from the feedback and support of some key groups. The 2015–­16 poverty seminar fellows of the Rutgers Institute for Research on Women provided feedback on a draft chapter. Hilary’s writing group at Baruch, comprised of Cristina Balboa, Susan Chambre, and Nicole Marwell, commented on two of the draft chapters. The students in Andrea’s Fall 2015 undergraduate seminar read the entire draft manuscript and spent the semester discussing and debating the issues. Their reactions, questions, insights, and edits were immensely helpful as we refined our writing style from purely academic to one that could reach a broader audience. We also presented pieces of our research at research and policy conferences and our thoughts benefited from feedback from attendees of the conferences of the Urban Affairs Association, the National Association for Welfare Research and Statistics, and the Safe Horizons Domestic Violence Conference. Of course, none of this was possible without the time, cooperation, and insights from the staff at all of the organizations we visited and interviewed and the survivors we interviewed. The staff at New Destiny and Prudence Crandall, our two case study sites, were responsive, helpful, and knowledgeable. Their willingness to work with us and their support of research in general were critical to the completion of the two case studies. Carol Corden, the Executive Director of New Destiny, also became an integral part of the book project when she agreed to write the epilogue. Her expertise and practice wisdom grounded in years of working in the field are evident in her epilogue and offer insights that complement the research focus of the book in important ways. We also appreciate the time and expertise of staff from the Connecticut Coalition Against Domestic Violence, the District Alliance for Safe Housing, Home Free, the National Network to End Domestic Violence, New Hope for Women, the Rutgers University Violence Prevention and Victim Assistance Program, the Town Clock Community Development Corporation, and Women Aware. The survivors of intimate partner violence in both Connecticut and New York deserve thanks beyond description. Their willingness and openness to share personal and intimate stories form the foundation upon which this work is built. We are humbled

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by their insights, expertise, and commitment to helping, in any way they can, to further the discussion of housing. Our families were an integral part of the book writing journey in a different way. We thank them for their support even, or shall we say particularly, when our work seemed so removed from and disruptive to our lives. We now understand why many refer to writing a book as a labor of love. We underestimated both the amount of work and the extent of reward. This was a truly collaborative endeavor, and somehow our individual efforts and expertise were multiplied instead of simply added together, resulting in a much stronger book than we could have written individually. We list our names alphabetically to reflect the equality of our contributions. We are thrilled to share our findings and conclusion with you.

Home Safe Home

Introduction

Housing matters for everyone. Decent housing provides shelter, security, privacy, stability, and, for homeowners, a means to build assets. It is particularly important for survivors of intimate partner violence (IPV), who need safe, affordable, and long-­term homes in order to escape and remain free from violence. Until recently, U.S. programs and policies did not address the connection between availability of long-­ term housing and providing IPV survivors with supports that are enduring and comprehensive. Agencies serving IPV survivors saw housing as an emergency and temporary intervention, to get survivors out of abusive situations. Most U.S. housing policies do not meet the particular needs of IPV survivors. Thus, many IPV survivors face inadequate housing options, which compromise their ability to maintain violence-­free lives and avoid poverty, forcing them to choose between remaining in temporary, and sometimes changing, shelter arrangements, becoming homeless, or returning to an abusive partner. Because many survivors have children, these choices and conflicts reverberate across families and over time. This book emphasizes the need to house IPV survivors affordably and safely over the long term. It describes the challenges of providing appropriate and affordable housing for survivors of IPV and explores promising practices emerging across the United States. Our thesis is that we must understand both the complex and varied needs of IPV survivors and the practicalities of programs, policies, and funding in order to design and expand appropriate, effective, and feasible housing models for survivors. Researchers, advocates, and policymakers tend to consider IPV survivors and housing policies

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in isolation from each other. Such an approach will not lead to implementable solutions for this population. As we consider individual needs on the one hand, and program and policy realities on the other, and use each to inform our understanding of the other realm, it is clear that we need a continuum of support for IPV survivors and their children. We propose that this continuum begin with emergency shelters and proceed directly to long-­term housing options, without time limits and with trauma-­informed supports designed to help some IPV survivors to move to other long-­term housing, with and without subsidy. Our use of the term “long-­term housing” is deliberate and merits explanation. The categories traditionally used to describe shelter and housing for IPV survivors and other populations are emergency, transitional, and permanent. We will describe these three types of housing in more detail later in this book. As we researched and wrote the book, however, we felt that the word permanent was problematic for IPV survivors, and perhaps for everyone. Most people living in market-­rate housing do not think of their homes as permanent; they hope to find a home that will work well for them until changes in life, such as income, family size or composition, or employment, make them want to move. Ability and flexibility to choose are important. We think all IPV survivors should have access to long-­term housing: housing that they can stay in for as long as they want, and as long as it works for their families. Long-­term housing also means that residents can choose to leave when it no longer works for them. In this book, therefore, we primarily refer to long-­term housing. We use the term permanent housing at some points when we are referencing specific programs or stakeholders’ views, because the term is used by government agencies and many providers and is an important funding category.

Meet Victoria Victoria’s journey from an abusive relationship, through the domestic violence shelter system, and finally to a permanent, supportive housing program for IPV survivors, illustrates many of the issues covered in this book. Victoria lives in a newly renovated, one-­bedroom apartment at The Anderson, an apartment building run by New Destiny Housing, a New York City nonprofit organization dedicated to providing housing options for IPV

I ntroduction 3

survivors. At The Anderson, Victoria lives with her three-­year-­old son. Her rent is paid partially with public assistance, and she has access to on-­site and off-­site services. Her lease is in her name, and she can stay in her apartment for as long as she wants. The neighborhood is low-­income, but convenient to transportation and shopping. Victoria’s journey to affordable, safe, and long-­term housing has been a rocky one. In 2011, after several years of physical, psychological, and economic abuse, she left her boyfriend, with whom she shared a one-­bedroom apartment in a working-­class neighborhood in Queens. Her son was only a year old, but his birth provided the impetus for her to leave the relationship, because she could not imagine bringing him up in such an unsafe and unhappy environment. When she left her abuser, she had nowhere else to go, so she moved into a city-­funded shelter for domestic violence survivors. She ended up staying in the shelter system for just over a year. Every three months, she and her son were moved to a new shelter, in part to ensure her safety from her abuser, but also, she thinks, because the city did not want her to get too comfortable in “the system.” When she first entered the shelter system, she was working as a home healthcare aide earning $10 an hour, and receiving Medicaid and some food stamps. She managed to maintain that job for the first six months of her shelter stay, often leaving the shelter before five in the morning in order to bring her son to his babysitter in Queens before traveling to work in another borough. After she was late too many times, however, she was fired, and applied for public cash assistance, commonly known as welfare. It was a long, lonely, and exhausting year. At times, Victoria questioned her decision to leave her abuser and wondered if she would ever find a stable place to raise her son and figure out her next steps. Throughout her shelter stay, she applied to subsidized housing programs. She was thrilled when she got a call from a program manager at The Anderson informing her that an apartment was available for her. Victoria and her son moved into the apartment in early 2013. He attends a family daycare across the street, paid for by a childcare voucher. Victoria enrolled in a job-­training program in medical billing at a local community college. She is lonely and sometimes fearful in the new neighborhood—­it is far from her family and friends—­but she feels safe from her abuser and appreciates that she now has some time and space to figure out her next steps. She is

4 I ntroduction

now able to set goals for what kind of housing she wants to live in, how she wants to support herself, and how she can ensure that her son is off to a good start—­all without worrying about being forced to leave her home before she is ready or able.

Understanding Needs and Constraints This book describes and assesses the development of housing options for IPV survivors, tracing the evolving understanding of housing as a mechanism for safety and stability. The discussion takes place within the context of the constraints and opportunities of housing policy in the United States and as part of a continuum of support for IPV survivors. Our goal is to present viable, actionable next steps that will address the complex housing needs of IPV survivors. We consider these issues from the perspectives of survivors, providers, advocates, policymakers, and researchers, reflecting the complicated and sometimes contradictory interests that shape this changing field. The focus on multiple stakeholder views is based in a feminist perspective that includes the voices of everyone involved in and affected by the direction of the new policies, particularly survivors. This multifaceted approach is critical to a feminist analysis of how domestic violence service providers and policy advocates consider the issue of permanent housing for survivors. We must assess how survivors can and should participate in shaping and perhaps operating new housing models. This approach, which marked the beginning of the movement in the 1970s, is being explored now in some innovative programs. Other researchers and practitioners have tended to consider the issue either from the perspective of survivors, as consumers of services, or from the perspective of providers, as shapers and deliverers of services. We seek to challenge those roles and assumptions, as researchers and practitioners. Why have housing policies and programs in the United States not yet fully evolved to meet the needs of IPV survivors? Policymakers have not connected interventions to the knowledge base about housing and IPV. There has not yet been comprehensive legislation or a substantial infusion of funding on the federal or state level. Most innovation on this issue has occurred at the local level, as states and localities, often collaborating

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with nonprofit advocacy and service groups, have adapted existing funding streams and programs in order to meet local needs and respond to advocacy efforts. The needs of IPV survivors are varied and complex. What is the history of providing emergency shelter and transitional housing for this population? The more recent movement of “housing first” and permanent supportive housing models adapted to serve the needs of IPV survivors and their families. We present promising practices and discuss policy and practice suggestions for expanding such models. The book includes findings from a national overview, and survivor and advocate voices from two locally based case studies. We review federal legislative changes relevant to housing for IPV survivors, and incorporate conversations with domestic violence agency and state coalition directors across the United States and interviews with policy advocates for housing for IPV survivors. The two case studies serve as examples and allow us to integrate data from both providers and survivors at the front lines. In one case study, we examined the development and design of a new housing program in Connecticut, one of the first congregate supportive housing programs designated for IPV survivors in the United States, through in-­depth interviews and focus groups with a variety of stakeholders. In the other case study, we interviewed survivors who are living in a New York City program that opened in late 2012. Both case studies concentrate on the experiences of survivors and their views on how housing and services can best support them in meeting their short-­and long-­term goals.

Overview of the Book This book describes the complex challenges of housing IPV survivors and discusses promising practices. Each chapter addresses an important piece of this puzzle: defining and understanding the challenges; and determining how to design and implement a housing continuum that will stabilize and empower IPV survivors. The book is organized into four parts. Part I establishes the importance of long-­term housing for IPV survivors. The first chapter answers the popular question of “why doesn’t she leave?” by providing an overview of IPV, explaining the barriers to leaving an abusive relationship, and describing the subsequent negative impact

6 I ntroduction

on housing stability. This chapter is written particularly for those who are new to the issue and the barriers that experiences of abuse present. The chapter explains the dynamics of an abusive relationship, including the theory of coercive control. We define physical, sexual, psychological, economic, and immigrant abuse and review the varied negative impacts of abuse in areas such as physical and mental health, employment and education, and support networks. We describe the severity and longevity of the mental health consequences of IPV and the barriers presented by institutional structures and intersectionality. The chapter ends with an explanation of the link between IPV and housing instability, in terms of both immediate, emergency needs and long-­term stability. The second chapter introduces long-­term housing, by presenting the stories of survivors living in a new housing program in the Bronx, as a solution to addressing barriers and meeting needs. We consider IPV survivors, like Victoria, who understand that long-­term or permanent housing is an integral piece of the support system that can enable them to leave their abusers, and the lack of it can be a barrier that prevents them from achieving a stable, independent life. The research presented in this chapter is based on in-­depth interviews with survivors over a two-­year period. These longitudinal data allow us to understand and present the stories of residents from their initial experiences moving into the building to their frustrations and accomplishments over the two years. Their stories illuminate how and why housing affects their lives, including safety and stability, as well as their ability to set goals and plan for the future. Most IPV survivors in the United States do not end up living in buildings like The Anderson. Whether or not an expansion of this type of housing model is needed depends on the efficacy of other existing programs and services. Part II consists of two chapters that describe the current policy and service environment experienced by survivors after leaving an abusive relationship, both in the short term and over the long term. Chapter 3 focuses on the history of shelters and transitional housing programs, which represent the services survivors can access immediately after an escape. In the past forty years, the domestic violence shelter system has evolved from an outgrowth of grassroots organizing, primarily funded by private contributions, to an institutionalized system that is supported by a variety of public funding sources and regulated by public policy. The

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original goal of service providers was—­and remains—­to enable women to leave abusive situations immediately. As the battered women’s movement coalesced in the 1960s and 1970s, this need was met through emergency shelters in which women, often with their children, were able to stay for short periods, usually up to thirty days. Subsequently, as providers realized that it took women some time to garner the resources to establish their own homes, providers developed transitional housing programs with support services, where survivors could stay for six months to two years. We describe the sometimes overlapping developments in housing responses to homelessness, and end the chapter with a description of the current emergency shelter and transitional housing options available to IPV survivors. Chapter 4 provides an explanation of the larger social safety net that many IPV survivors attempt to access once they leave the shelter system. Victoria, like many IPV survivors, stayed with her abuser for much longer than was safe for her and her son in part because she was stymied by a lack of knowledge and access to financial resources and support to facilitate an escape. IPV survivors, like Victoria, must navigate a landscape with extremely limited housing and income support options. The U.S. government’s limited policy and program response impedes survivors’ abilities to leave abusive situations and compromises their ability to remain violence-­ free after an escape. Women exiting emergency and transitional shelters often need financial support and should be able to access assistance from public sources. In many respects, survivors of IPV have financial needs similar to other low-­income women. Thus, the broader public social safety net should be a natural support system for these women and their families. If domestic violence service providers address emergency needs, why can’t the broader system of U.S. public services meet other needs of IPV survivors? This chapter highlights how current antipoverty policies, both housing and income related, are mismatched with the needs of IPV survivors and how they have affected families like Victoria’s. In part III, we examine new and evolving approaches to expanding long-­term housing options that match the needs of IPV survivors. Over the past decade, an increasing variety of housing models designed specifically for survivors have emerged across the nation; other agencies are attempting to modify existing programs to facilitate access and establish

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a better match with public and private housing. In these three chapters, we provide a national overview, assess the development of program theory and design from the perspective of administrators at our Connecticut case study, and offer survivor perspectives on design and implementation with data from both of our studies. In chapter 5, we consider legislative responses and program variations that have emerged across the United States. New Destiny Housing, the nonprofit organization that owns and operates the housing where Victoria lives, provides what it calls a “services-light” model—­not because its leaders think residents like Victoria do not need a full range of services, but because they are stretching scarce dollars to serve their residents. Many other organizations face a similar quandary. Funding sources that have supported the development of emergency shelters and transitional housing for IPV survivors cannot be used to finance permanent housing. Unlike permanent housing programs for people with severe mental illness and HIV, housing for IPV survivors has not yet been established as a dedicated cost center. Despite this challenging funding climate, long-­term housing units for IPV survivors have been developed across the United States, from Connecticut to Oregon, supported by a patchwork of funding from federal, state, and local governments, as well as private sources. Organizations have pursued creative options to meet the long-­term housing and service needs of their residents. This chapter explores emerging practices and models. Chapter 6 examines the challenges that advocates and service providers face when they are developing approaches focused on providing permanent housing options instead of shelter beds. Many of the programs reviewed in the previous chapter are based, at least partially, in the philosophy of “housing first,” also referred to as “rapid rehousing,” which assumes that homeless individuals will be best situated to address their health and social service needs when they are in safe and affordable housing as opposed to temporary shelter. The model’s success in terms of stabilizing residents, allowing them to meet self-­sufficiency goals, and securing funding has influenced domestic violence agencies. Permanent supportive housing, a model that grew out of the housing-­first approach, combines housing with related social services, provided on-­site or via linkage agreements. Chapter 6 explores the potential of this model to meet the needs of IPV survivors and their families. Using the Connecticut case

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study, we present the views of administrators on a new housing model in its development and planning stage, and then follow up to describe how the new program has fared. In chapter 7, we close part III, by presenting the views of survivors from two critical times in the development of new housing models. First, based on focus groups with survivors in Connecticut who were potential residents of the not-­ yet-­ developed Rose Hill, we summarize survivors’ thoughts about the possibility of survivor-­ specific, long-­ term housing. We present the perceived advantages and disadvantages and their ideas on services and rules. Second, we present findings from our interviews with residents of The Anderson over a two-­year period. Their opinions on program design and their thoughts on improving the residence and services are considered in conjunction with the findings from Connecticut to yield common themes and program implications. Thus, this chapter captures and discusses the perspectives of IPV survivors as consumers of housing and services, perspectives that are key in considering possible changes and improvements. We also consider their voices as potential shapers and leaders of future models. In part IV, we focus on the future of long-­term housing for IPV survivors from two perspectives. In chapter 8, we consider next steps in research and policy from the vantage point of researchers. The concluding chapter synthesizes the findings of the previous chapters, in order to understand the current state of long-­term housing options for IPV survivors and their potential in the near and far future. We look back at the most significant points of policy change in the evolution of shelter and housing policy for IPV survivors, and hypothesize about what would be necessary to bring about significant policy change around the issue of long-­term housing. We consider the questions that need to be answered—­or confronted—­as survivors, researchers, policymakers, advocates, and program administrators work collaboratively to bring about such change and discover solutions. The epilogue, written by the executive director of New Destiny Housing, presents next steps from a practitioner’s perspective. The chapter offers Carol Corden’s reaction to the book and, more important, her concrete suggestions for future advocacy efforts and programmatic developments. We have written this book to appeal to researchers, practitioners, advocates, students, and interested “laypeople.” The topic of housing

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models for formerly homeless families, including IPV survivors, is receiving growing attention. Individuals in a variety of fields, including public policy, social work, urban planning, sociology, political science, and women’s studies, are likely to find this book insightful. The book’s subject is rooted in housing policy, social welfare policy, and violence against women, all of which are related fields but tend not to overlap in scholarship. The story that the book tells is specific, one rooted concretely in the issues of intimate partner violence and housing, but also general in that it illustrates the varied influences that shape social policies and programs.

1 “Why Doesn’t She Leave?” Intimate Partner Violence and Housing Instability

Intimate partner violence has many names: domestic violence, domestic abuse, couple violence, and, in the past, spousal violence and woman battering. IPV refers to violence in an intimate relationship such as dating, cohabitating, and marriage. The terms of victim and survivor are also used interchangeably, and thus can cause some confusion. Survivor is a relatively newer term. We use it in this book to refer to individuals who are experiencing IPV as well as those who have experienced it in the past. The increasing use of survivor reflects recognition that whether or not someone is currently experiencing abuse or has experienced it in the past, that individual is surviving. Victoria’s story illustrates how escaping an abusive relationship can be an ongoing process that continues long after the physical separation: only after moving out of their shared apartment did Victoria realize how reliant she had been on her abuser financially and psychologically, and she had to garner the internal and external resources to survive on her own. Similarly, her decisions and actions while living with the abuse were strategies to protect herself and her child; they were survival strategies. The public often misunderstands IPV. The common response of “why doesn’t she leave?” depicts an abusive relationship as one in which the survivor has access to the resources and knowledge that she would need to unilaterally and immediately end the abuse and prevent future abusive behaviors. It also places a level of responsibility and blame on the survivor for the occurrence of the violence. We would not usually ask other crime 13

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victims why they did not prevent the crime. This chapter explains the complicated dynamics of an abusive relationship and the related difficulties caused by abuse, which often erect barriers to leaving an abusive relationship and to establishing a new, stable life. Housing is critical to stability for IPV survivors: in itself it provides safety and stability; it also offers a platform for survivors to access other stabilizing resources. For readers working in the IPV field or with extensive knowledge about the issue, this chapter will likely serve as a review of the major topics in the field. For readers new to the issue of IPV, this chapter will provide the basis for an understanding of the complexities related to IPV and a foundation upon which we build our arguments in future chapters.

Dynamics of Abuse Understanding the dynamics of an abusive relationship sheds light on the question of “why doesn’t she leave?” Coercive control theory summarizes and explains the unique nature of intimate partner violence, specifically “how men entrap women in personal life” (Stark 2007). The coercive control theory frames violence in abusive relationships as purposeful tactics used by an abuser to maintain power and control over his female partner. In contrast to the conflict that occurs naturally within relationships, coercive control is an intentional pattern of behavior, including physical, sexual, psychological, and economic abuse, occurring over a period of time.1 Abusers act in these ways with the intention of controlling and subjugating their partners. As Evan Stark (2007) explains, his book “reframes women battering from the standpoint of its survivors as a course of calculated, malevolent conduct deployed almost exclusively by men to dominate individual women by interweaving repeated physical abuse with three equally important tactics: intimidation, isolation, and control” (14). The coercive control theory focuses on IPV as a type of violence against women; it is gender-­specific. This aspect stands in contrast to some messages that IPV is gender-­neutral. While violence does occur in relationships with female perpetrators and male survivors, the more common situation is for the survivor to be a woman and the abuser to



“ W hy D oesn ’ t S he L eave ? ” 1 5

be a man. Most scholars view intimate partner violence as connected to larger societal issues, including a patriarchal power dynamic where women have fewer rights than men. Feminist theory states that IPV is related directly to modern society’s patriarchal system (Dobash and Dobash 1979; Walker 1979). Accordingly, male violence within intimate relationships is the result of power differences between men and women that maintain women as subordinate. Violence in same-­sex relationships, although it seems to contradict the feminist model, is related as it also derives from power differences and societal oppression of groups like same-­sex couples. Violence in other relationships, however, is missing the element of male privilege and is thus qualitatively different from the IPV that occurs as a form of violence against women because the abuse and barriers to escaping it are not reinforced by societal and cultural norms. Moreover, research indicates that often the violence committed by women against male partners is in self-­defense (Henning, Renauer, and Holdford 2006; Miller 2001). Although evidence from national crime surveys, police, hospital and court records, and clinical and shelter samples indicates much higher IPV rates among women, population-­based samples offer stronger evidence on the question of gender. Because IPV services are usually designed for women and would likely be underutilized by men, data from those sources may be biased. The most recent nationwide U.S.-­based survey, the annual National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey, conducted jointly by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) and National Institute for Justice, was completed in 2011 (Black et al. 2011). The survey’s goal is to collect data on the prevalence of intimate partner violence, sexual violence, and stalking victimization on an annual basis through a nationally representative, random-­digit-­dialed telephone survey.2 In response to questions about IPV, women report higher rates of both abuse and severe abuse experiences, and higher rates of injury and other consequences compared to male victims in both 2010 and 2011. For example, one in four women (compared to one in seven men) reported severe physical violence by an intimate partner in their lifetime, and one in ten women (compared to one in fifty men) reported having been stalked by an intimate partner during their lifetime (Black et al. 2011).

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Types of Abuse IPV encompasses different types of abuse. The CDC defines abuse as “physical violence, sexual violence, stalking, and psychological aggression (including coercive acts) by a current or former intimate partner” (CDC 2015). Physical abuse is probably the most recognized form of abuse and is the act most associated with responses from the criminal justice system. The definition of physical abuse spans assault with hands and fists to the use of weapons. Sexual abuse includes rape, forced sexual contact, and unwanted sexual experiences. Acts may be completed or attempted, and all are unwanted by the survivor. Consent is absent, including situations in which consent is not possible, such as when the survivor is voluntarily or involuntarily under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Stalking refers to repeated unwanted, uninvited, and obsessive actions and attention. Although stalking may include harassment, legally it is distinct. Individual acts, like making a phone call or sending flowers, viewed alone may seem innocent. Taken together, however, a pattern becomes evident. The intent behind the behavior is also distinct—­the actions are intended to intimidate or instill fear. The actions are also completely unwanted by the receiver. In the context of IPV, stalking occurs after a survivor separates from her abuser. Survivors who have left abusive relationships and become the objects of stalking behaviors are at an increased risk of being killed by their abusers (Campbell et al. 2003). Psychological aggression or psychological or emotional abuse is the most common type of abuse and can have long-­lasting negative effects. Based on the coercive control theory, this type of abuse is not only present in all abusive relationships, but constitutes a fundamental element (Stark 2007). The CDC defines psychological aggression as “use of verbal and non-­verbal communication with the intent to harm another person mentally or emotionally, and/or to exert control over another person” (CDC 2015). Psychological abuse includes behavior intended to dominate and isolate the survivor as well as verbal and emotional abuse such as degrading her or making her feel crazy (Tolman 1989). Research has shown this type of abuse to predict various mental health issues, including anxiety, depression, and post-­traumatic stress disorder (Coker et al. 2002; Lawrence et al. 2009).



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In addition to the four types of abuse recognized and defined by the CDC, researchers have identified two additional types of abuse. The first is economic or financial abuse, which refers to acts intended to compromise the survivor’s access to and use of resources. Economic abuse is a form of abuse that utilizes behaviors that “control a woman’s ability to acquire, use and maintain economic resources, thus threatening her economic security and potential for self-­sufficiency” (Adams et al. 2008, 564). Although economic abuse is usually considered part of psychological aggression or abuse (Brieding et al. 2015), research supports approaching it as a separate construct (Adams et al. 2008; Riger, Ahrens, and Blickenstaff 2000; Stylianou, Postmus, and McMahon 2013; Weaver et al. 2009). Economic abuse can be divided into three subcategories: employment sabotage, resource control, and financial exploitation (Postmus et al. 2012). First, employment sabotage is a group of tactics aimed at preventing access to education, training, and employment. Abusers may prevent survivors from attending school or work by failing to provide childcare, compromising transportation by stealing car keys or draining gas from the car, interfering with personal care by preventing sleep, hiding clothes, or inflicting injuries, and finally harassing the victim at work (Adams et al. 2008; Brandwein and Filiano 2000; Lyon 2002; Moe and Bell 2004; Riger, Ahrens, and Blickenstaff 2000). Second, abusers may exert extensive control of resources by denying access to money or closely monitoring money and spending (Adams et al. 2008; Wettersten et al. 2004). Third, abusers financially exploit survivors through tactics such as stealing cash or debit or credit cards, generating debt in joint credit lines, and compromising credit history by not paying bills or gambling (Adams et al. 2008; Postmus et al. 2012). The other more recently recognized type of abuse is immigrant abuse, which refers to tactics used by abusers to maintain control and power in circumstances where women are immigrants, both documented and undocumented. Immigrant abuse includes behaviors such as isolation from family, friends, and the larger community (Dutton, Orloff, and Hass 2000) and threats of reports to immigration authorities or deportation (Dutton, Orloff, and Hass 2000; Erez and Ammar 2003; Raj and Silverman 2002). Survivors’ immigration status may be dependent on sponsorship by their abusers, putting abusers in a position of power and knowledge. Other

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documented immigrant survivors may be on a visa that does not allow for employment, limiting her ability to leave the relationship and support herself. For undocumented women, who may have overstayed a visa or entered the United States without documentation, fear and isolation are exacerbated (Dutton, Orloff, and Hass 2000). Abusive partners may also sabotage efforts to learn English and at the same time insult their partners for not knowing the language (Raj and Silverman 2002). Inability to communicate further isolates survivors by negatively affecting their ability to seek help and to find employment (Dutton, Orloff, and Hass 2000).

Impact of IPV Experiences of abuse lead to consequences that affect multiple aspects of a survivor’s life (Allen, Bybee, and Sullivan 2004). IPV can lead to poor physical and mental health outcomes, lack of education or work experience, poverty, and limited social support networks. For IPV survivors with children, the consequences of abuse extend to their children as well. Research on physical and mental health issues associated with IPV is extensive. The consensus in the field is that survivors, compared to those who have never experienced abuse, have worse health outcomes, including injuries and illnesses (Afifi et al. 2009; Bonomi et al. 2009). Work by multiple researchers has demonstrated that women who have experienced IPV also bear a significant mental health burden (Beck et al. 2014; Bonomi et al. 2009; Hathaway et al. 2000; Lipsky, Caetano, and Roy-­Byrne 2009; Zlotnick, Johnson, and Kohn 2006). Among the many conditions commonly suffered by survivors of IPV are depression, post-­traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and anxiety (CDC 2015). The estimated prevalence of depression among women who have experienced IPV is about one in every two women (47.6 percent), and the estimated prevalence of PTSD is over three in every five women (63.8 percent) (Beck et al. 2014). In comparison, fewer than one out of ten individuals in the general U.S. adult population are affected by major depression (8 percent) or PTSD (7.8 percent) (CDC 2013). Depression can manifest itself in many ways, but some of the most common symptoms include feelings of worthlessness, helplessness, sadness, or pessimism. People with depression may have difficulty concentrating, feel tired all the time, or lose interest in activities they once enjoyed (National Institute of



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Mental Health 2015a). The symptoms of PTSD, like those of depression, can affect all areas of life. Although it is usually associated with military veterans, anyone who has experienced trauma can develop PTSD—­including a significant proportion of those who have experienced IPV. Some common symptoms of PTSD include traumatic flashbacks, nightmares, depression, emotional numbness, worrying, gaps in memory, feeling tense, and difficulty sleeping (National Institute of Mental Health 2015b). Complicating the effect of poor mental health, IPV survivors face other barriers to establishing stable lives. Due to the controlling nature of abusive relationships, survivors often lack education and work experience. Experiences of IPV, particularly psychological abuse and employment sabotage, can hinder a woman’s ability to find and maintain a job (Kimerling et al. 2009; Swanberg, Logan, and Macke 2005). Coupled with other experiences of economic abuse and lack of access to financial resources, this inexperience often results in poverty (Lein et al. 2001). Abusers further limit resources by isolating survivors from their family and friends. Finally, the difficulties associated with experiences of IPV are compounded when the survivor has children. Studies indicate an increased risk of child abuse in families where the mother is experiencing IPV (Holt, Buckley, and Whelan 2008; Jouriles et al. 2008). Many children witness acts of physical or psychological violence against their mothers. Children who live in homes with IPV are at an increased risk of emotional and behavioral problems (Holt, Buckley, and Whelan 2008). Considering the well-­being of their children is often central in the decision-­making process of IPV survivors (Randell et al. 2012).

Barriers to Leaving For survivors of IPV, the decision to leave an abusive relationship is complex. We began this chapter addressing the question, “Why doesn’t she leave?” Many of the impacts of IPV we just reviewed directly answer this question. While not all IPV survivors experience all types of abuse, all types of difficulties, and all types of barriers to leaving, all survivors experience some combination. The interconnection of difficulties and barriers has a multiplicative impact on survivors. For example, as explained earlier, IPV experiences can lead to both depression and limited work experience.

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These outcomes, in turn, may hinder efforts to gain employment and acquire financial resources, which, in turn, may compromise the process of leaving an abusive relationship. Safety is a critical barrier to escaping abuse; the most recognized, easily understood, and fundamental impact of IPV is physical and psychological injury and death. For some survivors attempts to escape an abusive relationship lead to escalations of the frequency and severity of abuse (Johnson and Bunge 2001). For survivors who need protection and secrecy to hide from their abusers, particularly those without financial or family resources or support, emergency shelters are the most common way to escape. Poverty and lack of financial resources pose significant barriers to leaving abusive relationships. Studies have identified lack of financial resources as the largest predictor of whether a woman stays in, leaves, or returns to an abusive relationship (Anderson and Saunders 2003; Barnett 2000; Kim and Gray 2008). Specifically, lack of income to secure safe housing often prevents women from leaving abusive situations (Anderson and Saunders 2003; Hardesty and Campbell 2004; Hirst 2003; Sheridan 2001). As Bybee and Sullivan (2002) note, as IPV survivors acquire resources and support, they are protected against further victimization. Coping with mental health issues can increase the difficulty of stabilizing financial and legal situations after escaping an abusive relationship. Depression can negatively affect a woman’s ability to create and sustain relationships, increasing her social isolation while decreasing her ability to access social support (Carlson et al. 2002). Depression can also diminish motivation, affecting survivors’ abilities to behave proactively in establishing their independence or making positive health decisions such as seeking treatment (O’Brien 2002). And when survivors do receive treatment, the financial burden and time commitment can be daunting, impeding women’s ability to meet work commitments or expectations (Brush 2000). The larger macro-­environment itself serves as a barrier to leaving. In chapter 4, we describe the mismatch between the needs of IPV survivors and the services and supports available through U.S. housing and income support policies. The challenges that IPV survivors face as they navigate and access social supports and opportunities are further compounded and complicated by their experiences as women. Discrimination



“ W hy D oesn ’ t S he L eave ? ” 2 1

erects another barrier to escaping an abusive relationship and establishing an independent life. The term intersectionality describes the intersections and interactions between systems of oppression and domination, including race, gender, class, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and immigration status (Crenshaw 1989). Many IPV survivors experience intersectionality, which may exacerbate the impacts of IPV for survivors with different backgrounds and identities and create larger barriers to leaving and accessing appropriate services.

Housing Instability For many IPV survivors who are able to escape an abusive relationship, the next step is not a new long-­term home, but an emergency shelter or temporary housing situation. Studies of homeless families confirm that IPV puts women at risk for homelessness. In twenty-­five major U.S. cities surveyed in 2013, an estimated 16 percent of homeless persons were homeless directly due to domestic violence (U.S. Conference of Mayors 2013). Figure 1.1 depicts the overlap between IPV and homelessness. Although not to scale, its purpose is to emphasize that our group of interest or target population is a specific subset of both homeless women and IPV survivors. Although IPV survivors have an increased risk of homelessness, not all survivors experience it. Similarly, although IPV is a significant cause of homelessness, particularly among women, it is not the only cause. Charlene Baker, Sarah Cook, and Fran Norris (2003) examined predictors for housing problems among IPV survivors and found that severe violence and less contact with informal and formal support systems, including welfare, increased the risk of housing problems, indicating that those at the overlap between IPV and housing instability are vulnerable. The mental health needs of IPV survivors make them similar to others at risk of homelessness. In comparison to the general female population, IPV survivors, like homeless individuals, have an increased risk of mental health struggles (Golding 1999; Helfrich, Fugiura, and Rutkowski-­Kmitta 2008). IPV survivors receiving public cash assistance have higher rates of mental health issues such as depression and PTSD than other welfare recipients do (Tolman and Rosen 2001). Families residing in homeless shelters and those in domestic violence shelters have similar rates of mental health problems as well as similar rates of lifetime abuse (Stainbrook and Hornik 2006).

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Macro-Environmental Barriers: Mismatch with social policy Limited low-income housing supply

IPV Survivors

Target Population

Homeless Families

FIGURE 1.1. Target population

A study of more than eight thousand women in New York City homeless shelters found that women with histories of domestic violence were significantly more vulnerable to recurring homelessness (Metraux and Culhane 1999). Mental health conditions, such as depression, anxiety, and post-­ traumatic stress disorder, can present barriers to finding and maintaining housing. Searching for affordable housing in the tight rental markets that exist in most U.S. cities is challenging enough; the complexity and relentlessness of the process can be overwhelming for individuals with mental health conditions. Applicants need to be able to comply with a multistep process, produce appropriate documentation, and present themselves and their children favorably to prospective funding agencies and landlords. The need for immediate safety and protection leads some IPV survivors to turn to emergency shelters. Eventually and sometimes immediately, survivors are ready to find long-­term housing. Paths to finding a long-­term home are varied. Figure 1.2 illustrates the many different steps and possible paths that a survivor could take in her journey to find a long-­ term home. The end goal of a home appears twice in the figure. First, if an abuser is removed or leaves the residence, a survivor would not have to leave and could make her current place her long-­term home. A long-­ term home appears again in the last box of the figure, with multiple paths



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Transitional housing

Original home (Long-term home if abuser leaves)

Emergency domestic violence shelter

Other emergency shelter

Long-term home

Marginally housed options

FIGURE 1.2.  Pathways to a long-­term home

leading to that goal, some direct and some with intermediary stops at boxes representing other living arrangements. Survivors with access to resources and support might be able to leave an abusive situation and go immediately to a long-­term option. For most survivors who choose to leave, however, emergency shelters or marginally housed options such as moving in with friends or going to a motel are more likely. Some of those survivors are able to leave this temporary shelter situation and move to a long-­term home while others might get caught up in the gray area in the middle of the figure, moving multiple times while unsuccessfully trying to find a long-­term home. Because of the difficulties associated with housing instability, homelessness, and multiple moves, we assert that policies and programs should try to help survivors find the shortest path to a long-­term home. This path will vary in accordance with survivors’ safety needs, but it should not be affected by the barriers presented by the macro-­environment or the logistical barriers to finding and maintaining a home. IN THIS CHAPTER,

we reviewed the major issues related to intimate part-

ner violence from the perspective of the survivor and the impact on her life, including the possibility of escaping the abuse and establishing an

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independent life. One critical aspect of gaining and maintaining that independence is the ability to access resources and find a stable, safe, and affordable place to live. The impacts related to experiences of IPV, however, pose a multitude of barriers to housing stability. The next chapter presents the stories of survivors who have overcome barriers to housing stability and are residing in an apartment building in the Bronx, New York, designed to meet the needs of survivors. Their stories provide the foundation for the remainder of the book, which investigates the need for, development of, and outcomes from similar models.

2 “How Does Housing Help?” A “Services-Light” Long-­Term Housing Model

IPV survivors like Victoria understand that housing is an integral piece of the support system that can enable survivors to leave their abusers, but it can also be a barrier that prevents them from doing so. In this chapter, we describe the experiences of Victoria and other residents at The Anderson, a building developed and operated by New Destiny Housing, a New York City nonprofit that provides housing and services to formerly homeless survivors of IPV. The forty-­one-­unit building, which opened in late 2012, offers affordable housing with limited supportive services. The Anderson is one example of the new housing approaches that domestic violence agencies are developing, and the residents’ stories motivate the remainder of this book. The research presented in this chapter is based on in-­depth interviews with survivors over a two-­year period. We followed thirteen residents and spoke with them at length to understand how they experience the residence and its services, and how the program facilitates New Destiny’s stated goals of housing stability, violence-­free and healthy living, and family economic self-­sufficiency. The experiences and voices of the survivors allow us to see how and why long-­term housing affects many aspects of their lives, including their current safety and stability, as well as their ability to set goals and plan for the future. Our conversations with women also focused on their opinions on program design and their thoughts on improving the residence and services.

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In order to maintain the confidentiality of the women, we have changed their names and those of their children. In some cases, we also changed details in their story, such as occupation, original borough or state of residence, or the age or gender of children. In a couple of cases, we combined the stories of two women into one. We feel strongly that the minor alterations in details do not impact the themes or stories of the women.

Case Study: The Anderson New Destiny’s Anderson Avenue building in the Bronx, known as The Anderson, is one of ten buildings developed and operated by New Destiny. Founded in 1994, New Destiny’s mission is “to end the cycle of violence for low-­income families and individuals at risk of homelessness and domestic violence by connecting them to safe, permanent housing and services.” The agency takes a threefold approach to fulfilling its mission. First, New Destiny provides housing and services to survivors. The majority of New Destiny’s buildings are permanent housing, but the agency also runs one emergency shelter and one transitional housing program. Second, in 1999, New Destiny created the Housing Link Resource Center, which provides housing information to survivors as well as offers trainings to other domestic violence service providers. Third, New Destiny educates the public and policymakers about the need for affordable housing through reports and public testimony. The Anderson has forty-­one units, twenty of which are set aside for IPV survivors coming from emergency shelters and transitional housing. There is a mix of studio, one-­bedroom, and two-­bedroom apartments with new appliances and large closets for New York City apartments. New Destiny completely renovated the building and its newness stands out on the block of older brick buildings. Figure 2.1 is a photograph of the front of the building. Administrative offices are located on the first floor along with a small conference room and a large common room used for tenant meetings and sponsored activities. There is a landscaped backyard with a small playground as seen in figure 2.2. The Anderson is what New Destiny has termed a services-­light model, meaning that there are limited voluntary services available at the site. tested Many tenants’ rents are paid partially or fully through means-­

FIGURE 2.1. The Anderson Photograph by Ben Russell, courtesy of New Destiny Housing

FIGURE 2.2. Backyard of The Anderson Photograph by Ben Russell, courtesy of New Destiny Housing

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programs such as rental assistance through Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF), a Section 8 voucher, or a “LINC III” (New York City’s Living in Communities program) voucher targeted to IPV survivors in emergency shelters. Because the building’s rehabilitation was financed with Low Income Housing Tax Credits and other subsidies, rents are significantly below market. Private and government grants to New Destiny fund the cost of services. A tenant support coordinator is the one full-­time staff person on-­site. She provides some on-­site services as well as referrals to other agencies. Social work interns and main office staff provide other services periodically, such as children’s events or tenant meetings. Referrals and support seek, as described on New Destiny’s website, “to empower all of our tenants and offer them the support they need to build a better tomorrow for themselves and their children.”1

How Housing Helps During the close to two years that we spoke with residents of The Anderson, the women described their journeys and how they felt that having safe, affordable, long-­term housing helped them achieve their goals and overcome obstacles. Although each woman had a unique story, similar themes appeared. Six topics were common in our conversations with all thirteen women: housing stability; mental health and psychological well-­being; economic stability and progress; empowerment and self-­ efficacy; social support and community involvement; and safety. We discuss each theme below. The specific experiences and relationships between these themes and the supports provided at The Anderson depended on residents’ circumstances, including the amount of outside support they had and their personal barriers and advantages. Regardless of their unique situations, however, all women acknowledged some level of interaction between their lives and residence at The Anderson.

Housing Stability At the core of many evaluations of housing programs is the goal of understanding if, how, and why stable housing affects other aspects of one’s life. During our interviews with residents of The Anderson, however, we came to see that women valued housing stability in and of itself, beyond its influence on other aspects of their lives. Women shared their often



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difficult and stressful stories of escaping abuse, only to have to contend with the uncertainty of living in an emergency shelter. They described the practical impacts of such uncertainty, such as lost jobs and childcare opportunities, as well as the mental health impacts, such as anxiety and depression. From the time when they first heard that they were chosen for one of the Anderson Avenue apartments, women felt they had gained the physical and psychological space to regroup and make decisions about their next steps. During our first round of interviews, all women were positive and excited when speaking about their experiences since moving into their new apartments. Most had been living there for about four months and already felt very comfortable in their new homes. One resident explained: I love it! Every minute of it, from the time I moved in. No, from the time I had the first interview. Michelle [the intake worker] was so nice, I felt comfortable. When I finally came to see the apartment and I ran into Carlos [the superintendent]. He seemed great. He is a sweetheart and I love him to death. He made me feel very welcomed. You know if I had a problem he would always say call me even on my off day. Everybody’s been so sweet and Rebecca [the tenant support coordinator] is a sweetheart. I love her. But everyone has been really, really nice!

Women described characteristics of the housing itself as advantages. The most common themes were cleanliness, privacy, peace, and independence. All residents spoke passionately about at least one of these topics, and many brought up points regarding all four themes. Women talked about how they felt happy that they did not have to turn down personal or professional opportunities as the result of restrictive rules imposed by the emergency shelter system. Perhaps Angela summed up independence the best: “I don’t have to check in with anybody. I have my own key to my own house and I pay my own bills. And if I don’t want nobody in my house I can say, ‘Now you can go home. Bye!’” The majority of women interviewed did not perceive any disadvantages, and did not see themselves leaving The Anderson in the near future or at all. As one women stated, “If I’m moving out of here, it would be to my own house.”

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Notably, all women remained stably housed during the study period. Twelve of the thirteen women we interviewed remained at The Anderson, and they intended to remain there at least for the near future. During our last interview, which corresponded with the two-­year move-­in anniversary for many residents, women discussed renewing their leases and many reported that they chose to enter into two-­year instead of one-­ year ones. One woman, Sabrina, moved out of The Anderson to another permanent housing arrangement during the study period. Sabrina, a recent immigrant to the United States in her early thirties, moved into a two-­ bedroom apartment in The Anderson in December 2012 with her three children after living in a series of emergency shelters for over a year. Sabrina left her abuser after an incident when he became very violent in front of the children and child protective services got involved: “They told me I couldn’t stay in the house, ‘you gotta get out of the house.’ So, everything I worked for in the past five years, everything is gone. I just moved to the DV [domestic violence] shelter with some clothes and all my stuff was gone.” Sabrina worked throughout her time at the different shelters, often waking up at 4 a.m. to have enough time to get her children in daycare and school, before getting to work. It was evident that all of Sabrina’s decisions were based on what she thought was best for her children. At one point during her shelter stay and in the midst of intensive legal battles, Sabrina expressed doubt that she could care for her children: “At a certain point, I just wanted to give up. I wanted someone to take my kids. They deserve it because I can’t do it anymore. If I can’t take care of myself, I don’t want to see them going through this anymore.” When she received the call from New Destiny, Sabrina was elated: “You know at that time having a home was all I needed. That’s all I wanted for my kids. We were so tired. I was so tired.” After moving to The Anderson, Sabrina’s goal of making a better life for her children continued and she enrolled in GED (general equivalency diploma) and work-­related training courses in addition to keeping her job. Her children attended the local public schools, but Sabrina was not happy with the quality. Soon afterwards, her oldest was accepted to a prestigious private boarding school with a scholarship, but Sabrina was concerned about the two younger ones, particularly without the help of her oldest.



“ H ow D oes H ousing H elp ? ” 3 1

She received notification that she had been called off the waiting list for a public housing unit, which was a coup: the New York City Housing Authority’s waiting list can be ten years long, due to demand and the high quality of the housing. After much consideration and only about six months after moving to New Destiny, Sabrina moved to a public housing unit in a mixed-­income neighborhood in Manhattan, so that her younger children could also attend better schools and so that she could attend a nursing program at the local hospital. “There’s no need for private school in this neighborhood,” Sabrina explained. “The school has a lot of activities; the school has good after-­school programs; and most of the kids here have great families.” During our last interview with Sabrina, she expressed regret about moving to the public housing unit, however. A year after moving to the “projects,” Sabrina was doing well in her training program and still maintaining a part-­time job. She thought it was likely that she would soon be offered a full-­time position. Her middle child moved schools to attend a private middle school on the Upper East Side on a scholarship, like her older sibling. Perhaps with this lessened tie to the local public schools in her neighborhood, Sabrina explained, I made the wrong decision. I wanted to go to school. I couldn’t afford to pay for everything. I didn’t look at the safety part. It’s all about safety. The neighborhood is good, but the building is not. Now that I’m here, it’s not someplace that you can live with your little kid. Too much drugs, you don’t want your children around that. They can’t go in the elevator themselves. I can’t be coming home late. Every “project” is the same. This is one of the best. . . . I just don’t feel safe. It’s not domestic violence anymore, just safety. . . . I think my children would be safer in The Anderson.

She also was increasingly struck by the gentrification of her new neighborhood. Groceries were expensive and she felt the stigma of paying with food stamps, so she often traveled back to the Bronx to shop. Sabrina’s experience is borne out by recent research considering the effects of neighborhood change on public housing residents (Abt Associates and NYU Furman Center 2015). Having moved to public housing, however, Sabrina was not

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eligible to reapply to The Anderson or other similar buildings since she could no longer qualify as a “homeless” applicant. Sabrina already had affordable, permanent housing. Although disappointed and worried for the short term, Sabrina’s conviction did not waiver: “If I graduate, I will be stable financially, which I don’t regret. I sacrificed and now I’m going to live good for the rest of my life.” The accomplishment of remaining stably housed during the study period was not taken for granted by Sabrina or any of the residents we interviewed. Particularly the women who were working and responsible for paying at least a portion of their rent placed a very high value on their apartments. These women prioritized paying their rent above all other expenses. Two women had received larger than anticipated tax refunds through the Earned Income Tax Credit program during their first year at the Anderson and both decided to use those funds to pay extra months of their rent.

Mental Health and Psychological Well-­Being The theme of mental health and psychological well-­being appeared in the stories of many of the women, and highlights the critical importance of trauma-­informed services. Many residents described the move to affordable, long-­term housing as having a direct and profound impact on their emotional well-­being. Edith, whose story is described later in this chapter, said: “Having the apartment here has helped me get out of the negative state I was in and the depression. I was very depressed and stressed out ‘cause I didn’t have my own place and I was like I can’t do this no more. I mean I even had suicidal thoughts and all. But this helped me, this really, truly, truly helped me.” All of the women we interviewed described continuing challenges with mental health, to some degree. For many, difficult times and events triggered feelings of depression or anxiety or worsened PTSD-­ like symptoms. One resident, who was in the middle of complicated court proceedings, explained: “I’m anxious to get this divorce over with. . . . It’s almost like when I know I have to go back to court and I’m looking at the calendar and I’m like, oh God, I have to go back soon, I have to see his face. . . . I get so angry.” Later in the interview, though, she also noted some improvements in her ability to handle interactions with her



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abuser: “But since coming here I have less stress, I am more happy, more confident, self-­esteem is back up.” For a smaller number of residents, trauma-­ related mental health issues were severe enough to interfere with daily living. One resident we interviewed struggled with seizures that she described as stress-­related, and was receiving mental health treatment. Another woman, Janice, also sought help from professionals, but experienced barriers in accessing those services. Janice is a Latina woman in her late twenties with an associate’s degree. She has one daughter who was four years old during our first interview. While she has full custody over her, she is in court with her abuser over visitation rights. In the first year of our study, Janice experienced a series of stressful situations at her workplace that caused her to relive her experiences of abuse and harassment. After describing her long hours, chaotic schedule, and unsupportive colleagues, Janice explained, “I was all over the place and then something happened at the job that triggered more things.” She ended up voluntarily entering a psychiatric hospital unit, and she lost her job as an emergency medical technician, which she had worked very hard to secure. Janice tried tirelessly to deal with the challenges at her job. She explained, “I really wanted it [the job] for my daughter and then that same day I was fired I was admitted to the hospital for psychiatric help and I was there for a week and I’ve been since recovering.” Janice was grateful that The Anderson’s tenant support coordinator visited her in the hospital. She also remained in regular text contact with Sabrina even after Sabrina moved out of The Anderson. In subsequent interviews, Janice described her attempts to address her own needs and begin her healing. Initially, Janice was seeing a therapist every week and a psychologist every month. Her therapist also recommended domestic violence support groups. In our last interview, Janice said, “I think I am getting better. . . . I’ve been working on myself, you know, on my own, finding peace.” Janice spoke about using stress management and self-­talk: “I try not to let things work me up because I know how bad it can be.” Janice recognized that she needed to see a therapist regularly in order to stay healthy, but she could not find one locally who she was comfortable with, so she stopped.

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Economic Stability and Progress Residents were clear that they hoped to leverage their time at Anderson Avenue to shore up their stability, particularly in terms of employment and education. We asked residents to reflect on their progress during our last interview with them, which for most was a full two years since they moved into their apartments. Although progress was sometimes uneven, many residents reported notable strides in either education or employment. One resident explained during that last interview that housing and services were helping her “to concentrate on just, you know, going to school and finishing and getting in something for myself. I’m at a point where everything is actually stable.” This ability to “concentrate” was apparent in our conversations with women who described thoughtful and strategic decisions when considering economic options. It was clear that housing stability had provided them with the time and space they needed to consider those options. When Maria, a white woman in her twenties, entered the emergency shelter system, she was working at three different jobs. She maintained those jobs even as she was moved to two different shelters and had to maintain childcare for her son, who was three when we first met them at The Anderson. Shortly before she was offered the apartment at The Anderson, she secured a job working “recovery” (straightening out clothing and other merchandise and returning it to the right racks) at Macy’s: she would begin before closing and work until 10 p.m. She was thrilled about this job, which paid $19 an hour and was part-­time, but she felt that it offered opportunities for advancement and she was determined to earn them. She supplemented her work income with food stamps and some public cash assistance. Over the course of our interviews, however, Maria realized that the job’s hours and location were detrimental to her relationship with her son. After two years at Macy’s, she got a job through a family friend as an administrative assistant at a car dealership nearby. The job was full-­time, paid better, and was within walking distance. Maria bragged, “I’m learning new things. I’m learning Excel, Outlook, all that, so I love it. . . . And it’s a set salary. . . . I budgeted myself where I said, okay, this is for rent, this is for the light bill, cell phone bill, and then I still have, you know, if I totaled the amount in the month, I still have money left over where I’m like, my God, I could do stuff now.” She planned to move her son to a charter school down



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the block from her job so that they could walk home together. As Maria explained, “It worked out for the both of us!” Maria was thrilled, and also recognized that she could not have secured this job if she had not put in her time at Macy’s. Maria explained that her new employer was impressed with her work history: “she held a job for this long!” When asked to think about her life over the two-­year study period, Maria said, “It’s been good! I’m proud of myself!”

Empowerment and Self-­Efficacy: “I’ve Come a Long Way!” Residents expressed an increased sense of responsibility and ownership of life events over the course of the study. For some this increased sense of self-­efficacy or accomplishment was very much related to economic progress. “I’m so proud of myself, like this year I’ve accomplished so much,” one resident explained. “For me to be working, like I’ve never been behind in my rent, had my lights cut off, never got like a final notice. My cable has never been cut off, my light has never been cut off, phone, nothing.” For others, the change was more gradual and less tied to specific accomplishments. Takisha is an African American woman in her early thirties with three children. Her two older children are teenagers and both have struggled with the effects of witnessing domestic violence. Her younger child is still a toddler and was born shortly after she fled to an emergency domestic violence shelter. Before going to the shelter, Takisha and her boyfriend moved many times, including from South Carolina to New York, and had difficulties maintaining an apartment. When we first met Takisha, she had recently completed her GED and had plans to become a dental hygienist: Well, my short-­term goal would be to apply for college. That is the goal that I really want. Like I got the GED down pat, I got that accomplished, and it feels so good. Now the next step is . . . I really, really want to go [to college] and I really want the time to focus. That’s why I want to get him [her younger son] into child care so it can tire him out during the day. By the time he gets home he can sleep, and I can concentrate on what I need to do. But my short-­term goal, yeah, would be to enroll in college. The only thing is I don’t know how to go about doing that. I’m on welfare; I’m on their budget and stuff.

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When asked if she had spoken to her caseworker, Takisha replied: “No, not really. I mean they gave me forms to take to the college, but I think they told me to go to the college. I haven’t really made it up there yet, because I’ve been so exhausted.” Over the next year, scheduling interviews with Takisha was challenging. Her cell phone number changed, and she missed a couple of appointments. When we were able to talk, Takisha discussed her welfare sanction due to noncompliance with work activities. She had not enrolled in college and was struggling with meeting daily challenges. In her words, “I can’t win for losing over the smallest thing.” Her welfare assistance was being cut to twenty dollars a week and she was uncertain if that would affect her housing. She was also uncertain about how to resolve the problem or what steps to take. “So, I’m trying to figure out like . . . I need help. I need help.” Later in the interview, Takisha talked about applying for jobs online with no success. “So, all I had to do was just send my resume and I’ve been doing that. I’ve been doing everything right. Like, I don’t know. I don’t know. I really don’t know.” A few months later, after resolving her fair hearing and sanction, Takisha received a work experience placement through the welfare department (or, as she calls it, an internship), with the sanitation department. At the time of our last interview, which she texted to confirm, Takisha had been with the placement for six full months. She needs to hold the placement successfully for between eighteen to twenty-­four months to be considered for a full-­time job at the department. But the time frame was not discouraging her efforts: “It’s long but, you know, I’m going to stick it out because, you know, at the end I get everything that I need for me and my three boys.” On traditional measures of self-­sufficiency, it may seem like Takisha had not made any progress. She remained on public assistance and did not acquire additional education or training. Her cash assistance, however, was steadier and her participation in TANF work activities and opportunities at The Anderson increased notably. She was also able to become involved in her older sons’ school and find appropriate resources to address their mental health needs. The level of self-­awareness and self-­ efficacy that had developed over the almost two years we knew her was impressive. When asked to describe her two years at The Anderson, Takisha replied, “I describe my time here as a nice journey because you know



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I came out of the shelter and then I didn’t have anything and I was trying to get back on my feet and moving in here was the first step. So, I got past that and I got my older sons through junior high and I got this little one and he’s coming up and going to school. It’s really nice and I really enjoy it and I plan on staying here for a little while longer.”

Social Support and Community Involvement Experiences of IPV often include high levels of isolation. Abusers strategically keep their partners away from family and friends to strip them of a support network. Even after escaping an abusive relationship, survivors often have immediate, pressing issues to resolve before having the time to reach out to friends, old and new. One of the goals of both the original emergency shelters of the 1970s and the newer long-­term housing models of today is the possibility of both peer support and community involvement that could help survivors. These themes were clear in our interviews with most residents. At The Anderson, the tenant support coordinator organizes social events, like potlucks. We witnessed a growing number of friendships forming through both organized events and informal conversations at the outside playground and near the mailboxes. For many residents, these relationships provided both emotional and tangible support, such as babysitting and shared meals. In the words of Victoria, “I found, you know, a nice little network the way, you know, the building is kind of like a little family.” For Edith, a multiracial woman in her mid-­sixties, the building community became much more than an ancillary support system. Edith is divorced, after a twenty-­plus year marriage, and has one grown daughter, with whom she has a close emotional, but physically long-­distance, relationship. She has no family or friends in the Bronx and her mobility is limited by her physical health. When we first spoke to Edith, only a couple months after she had moved in, she expressed hopes of finding a part-­time activity to occupy her time and get her involved in something: “I have got to do one or the other—­enroll in a school, taking some classes or a program or something, or finding myself some little job that I can do.” She expressed concerns, though, regarding her health and her lack of experience, particularly regarding computers: “I am so far in time in the computer world; I don’t even have a computer.”

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When we asked about any updates at our next interview, about six months later, Edith replied: That’s a thing of the past. That part-­time work and all. They look at you and say, “hmm, you’ve been out of work that long and your age, that’s not gonna happen.” I’m still here walking with a walker and a cane. It’s not gonna happen, but I’m still gonna look and see if I can find something, I really want to do something. I’ve been here working with Rebecca and doing whatever has to be done. Last week we had a little Halloween party for the kids. Oh my God! Did they have a ball! . . . So I try my best to be involved here and do what I can.

Edith’s involvement in the building soon developed into that “something” she was initially looking for in a job or training program. She expressed how she now had a purpose and was helping others in her community. In addition to providing assistance at the actual events, Edith became a bit of a community advocate, talking to residents in the hall and trying to get them involved as well: “I try to tell them in the hallway. I try to get more people involved. She [the coordinator] can’t do it alone.” When asked which programs she felt were most important, Edith replied, “Well, whatever is going on here, I try to be a part of it. As long as it is in the building, I’m gonna be a part of it.” Later on in the same interview, Edith explained, “I want to be a leader. I told her [the coordinator] many times, if she needs help, I’ll be there for her. I’ll be your right hand. You can’t do it alone.” At our last interview with Edith, her description of her interactions with building events and other residents evolved from a one-­sided relationship in which she was the helper to an articulation of a mutually beneficial relationship. “Other tenants have helped me in, you know, many ways,” Edith said. “You know, they seen I was down and out or whatever, you know, if I needed something from the store or if I needed help in the apartment, they would come.” When asked about her favorite memory, she replied, “Honestly, I can say overall, my living here, with the illnesses that I have had, the support that I have gotten. You know, they’re very supportive, very caring, and I don’t think I would have gotten that in an outside apartment complex.”



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Safety Everyone wants to live in a safe home and neighborhood. For IPV survivors, safety takes on a new meaning, and the imperative and complexity of safety was woven in every resident’s story. The building and facilities of The Anderson are an integral part of New Destiny’s ability to support and serve the residents, including protecting their physical safety. “Space and place” play a particularly important role in issues related to safety and stability. In our interviews, most residents stressed how safe they felt in The Anderson—­both in contrast to their previous living arrangements, which often involved domestic violence, and in contrast to the surrounding neighborhood, which most perceived as dangerous. They appreciated the presence of the security guard, whose hours increased during the time of our study, and features like the double doors at the entrance and the multiple security cameras. One resident explained to us: “At others places where I lived I worry about coming in and out the building. But here I feel like no one could follow me in because there’s someone right there. That helps a lot.” Sabrina’s story and her experience in public housing underscore the importance of safety. More infrequently during our interviews, residents expressed frustrations with rules related to safety and access to facilities. The play area initially was available for limited hours, and although more hours were added during the study period, residents remained frustrated that they could not invite friends and nonresident children to play there. Because most residents felt that the neighborhood was not safe, they were reluctant to use local parks instead. For some residents, limited access to facilities and high levels of security were analogous to their previous lives in which they were controlled by abusers: “I was controlled, when I could do this, when I could that. Going into the shelter, controlled again. When I could do this, when I could do that, be in by that time. So then, here it’s almost like the same aspect of being in the shelter. You’re a little free; you can come in and out whenever you want, but it’s like, who’s that that came to your apartment or what is this going on?” They felt confined by the program rules and the cameras, even as they simultaneously were reassured by the safety they provided. As one resident explained: Just to find out that there are people here, there was staff, you got support, that people will have your back, you know, it was just like

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different, you know, and it really meant a lot just to know that, oh, people cared, people are not going to see me get hurt or whatever. They are there checking in on me, they are watching. I mean I can’t even put into words how it’s like a load off of your shoulders, you know, like I’m not alone anymore. I don’t have to worry every time I step out of the building and look to the right and the left and this and that because I’ve lived like that, you know.

LIVING AT THE

Anderson touched all the residents that we interviewed in

some way and directly addressed barriers related to the question of “why doesn’t she leave?” Most residents feel very positive about the building as a community and about the support provided by the tenant support coordinator. Many residents inquired about why we were conducting the research and what we would do with the results. In response to our explanation, one resident told us, “So I hope that our stories could make them [readers] see that, you know, the change [the creation of long-­term housing with services] has helped a lot of us women out. There is life after domestic violence!” The next part of the book includes two chapters and focuses on the current environment that survivors face in terms of options and services. Chapter 3 describes the history of the domestic violence movement and how organizations focused on services, advocacy, and policy formed and have changed over time, with a particular focus on approaches to providing emergency shelter and housing. Chapter 4 explains the mismatch between other housing and income support policies and the needs of IPV survivors.

3 First Stop Emergency Shelters and Transitional Programs

The United States’ domestic violence shelter system originated with grassroots feminist organizing in the 1970s. The top priority of shelter organizers was to help women leave abusive situations, and that priority remains the same today. The battered women’s movement initially met this need with emergency shelters in which women, often with their children, could stay for short periods. Many early activists also sought to dismantle societal conditions that they felt led to inequality and the oppression of women. Subsequently, in the early 1980s, as it became clear that women needed more time to amass financial and psychological resources to live independently, providers developed transitional housing programs with support services, where survivors could relocate after timing out of emergency shelters, and stay for an additional six months to two years. Victoria, who now lives in long-­term housing designated for survivors of intimate partner violence, spent more than a year in the shelter system after leaving her abuser, and managed to move directly into long-­term housing, but she is very much aware that she was lucky to secure her apartment. By the late 1980s, the administration and delivery of these emergency and transitional programs and services had changed, due to internal and external factors. Professional administrators developed and enforced goals and requirements, and survivors rarely contributed to program design or operations. Some administrators were movement veterans, but others were professional nonprofit managers without any particular connection to the issue of domestic violence or to feminist organizing. These changes 43

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caused some strife within the movement. The system serving the shelter and housing needs of IPV survivors thus has evolved in forty years from an outgrowth of grassroots organizing, supported primarily by volunteers and private contributions, to an institutionalized network that is supported by public and private funding sources and regulated by federal, state, and local governments.1 It is clear that demand for both emergency shelter and long-­ term housing for IPV survivors still far outstrips resources, but it is not clear what shape those resources should take, and whether or not they should be integrated with housing for other populations. This chapter describes how emergency shelters and transitional housing were established, and how they have changed since the 1970s. As this chapter further describes, a sometimes parallel movement has advocated for and developed housing and services for homeless individuals and families since the 1980s. This movement arose in response to street homelessness that became more common for single people in the 1970s and families in the 1980s. Shelter and housing models for IPV survivors often have benefited from research and program development conducted by advocates for the homeless and homeless service providers. At times, they also have diverged.

Domestic Violence Becomes Public Children’s advocates “discovered” issues of child abuse and neglect in the United States in the 1960s, and commenced intersecting advocacy, policy, and service work to address the issues. The related issue of domestic violence emerged in the public sphere in the 1970s, and became a key cause for the still nascent women’s movement. Domestic violence transcended differences of class and race, and therefore became a useful fulcrum around which activists could organize supporters. Like child abuse, of course, domestic violence was nothing new, but it previously had not been seen as an issue for public policy to address. In exposing and addressing it, the feminist movement countered legal, political, and social mores that perceived IPV as a family problem. The common perception was that domestic disputes should be resolved privately; that solutions, if they were even necessary, were the sole responsibility of household members. Elizabeth Pleck (2004) argues that the prevalence of the



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“Family Ideal” nurtured beliefs about family privacy and unity, as well as a man’s right to control dependents, and thus supported prior inaction against domestic violence.2 Advocates for battered women argued that domestic violence was instead a societal problem arising from structural inequalities, to be addressed by courts and legislation (Tierney 1982). Del Martin’s Battered Wives, published in 1976, was the first monograph on the topic, and the first analysis to situate abuse within broader political, social, and economic inequalities that created the conditions for it to arise and to be tolerated within families and communities (Martin 1976). Susan Schechter (1982) wrote the first extensive history of the movement, even as it expanded and changed.3

Emergency Shelters for IPV Survivors: The Beginning Once abuse was publicly acknowledged, it could be addressed. As psychologist Lenore Walker observed, emergency shelters were “the cornerstone of battered women’s programs” (Walker 1979, 203). Shelters met a concrete need for battered women and their children, and simultaneously provided a platform for organizers to deliver services and raise consciousness. Shelters for IPV survivors first opened in the early 1970s in England (Pizzey 1974). The first was Chiswick Women’s Aid, which opened in 1972 after a neighborhood advice center was flooded with women seeking help with and escape from battering (Sutton 1977–­78). Women in the United States learned about these emergency shelters and sought to replicate them.4 The first IPV shelters in the United States were rented apartments, networks of private homes coordinated through hotlines, or even rooms within apartments rented by individuals. Women’s Advocates in St. Paul, a feminist collective, opened a hotline and legal information service in 1972. Minimal shelter services were available later that year in a one-­bedroom rented apartment and in the homes of collective members, and a full shelter opened in 1974 in a five-­bedroom purchased house that was filled to capacity as soon as it opened (Davis 1999; Martin 1976). Transition House in Boston opened in 1976 in the five-­room apartment of two women who had been battered, one of whom was a sex worker (Schechter 1982).5 Later, groups rented or bought houses. Eventually, after securing the necessary resources, they renovated or constructed buildings into shelter-­specific configurations.

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Beyond providing refuge, shelters’ goals tended to reflect who organized them and where they were located. Women’s consciousness-­raising groups spearheaded some of the early shelters, as women realized how domestic violence blocked their social and economic independence. Women’s Advocates’ shelter in St. Paul was envisioned as “a liberating, utopian community” before it was a shelter for battered women (Schechter 1982, 33–­34). Other shelters, opened by neighborhood groups, responded to neighborhood-­specific needs. Casa Myrna Vazquez in Boston sought to meet the needs of battered women but also to address pressures of gentrification and displacement, and the lack of services in the Latina community, through “community-­controlled services for women and their families to ensure that their work would remain a part of the family receiving the services” (57). Women’s centers seeking to serve a broader set of women’s needs also organized shelters: the Women’s Center South in Pittsburgh, for example, began in the home of its founder and offered “a kitchen, a place to sleep, a reading room, and an information center” (56), and subsequently evolved in 1974 into a more formal shelter for battered women. Early shelters operated collectively, almost entirely through volunteer efforts, individual donations, and small grants from community foundations. Some shelters charged a small fee for room and board (Roberts 1981). Survivors often staffed the shelters and emergency hotlines, in part because there was no funding for paid staff, but also because shelter founders felt that such participation was critical to survivors’ self-­determination and independence (Ferree and Hess 2000). Early feminist organizers, many of whom were also Marxists, believed “one of the greatest potentials of a shelter can be negated by the alienation of the residents from those running the shelter, and through mystification of the work and processes involved” (Lyell, Woods, and Warrior 1978, 91). In contrast to the formal social service programs that developed later, shelters relied on consciousness-­raising and self-­help strategies that drew on survivors’ personal experiences and situated them in the context of gender inequality. As advocate Betsy Warrior wrote in 1976 in the first edition of her pioneering book, “foremost among the benefits of a shelter is the environment of safety, understanding, solidarity, and support it has the potential of offering. . . . the atmosphere or interactions within the shelter should be a reflection of the basic feminist principles and concern



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that brought them into existence in the first place” (Warrior 1978, 62). Residents took on shared responsibility for cooking, cleaning, and other chores, and staff, volunteers, and survivors collectively developed rules about curfews, drugs, length of stay, attendance at house meetings, and visitors (Martin 1976; Schechter 1982). Most shelter stays were limited to thirty days. Organizers assumed thirty days was the right amount of time for women to secure new housing arrangements. Some observers critiqued these early shelters for being in constant crisis mode (Lynch and Norris 1978).

Expansion of Shelters and Services As shelters grew and formalized, they offered more services, including help with securing public assistance and other income supports, job training and placement, and location of permanent housing. Services for children came later: as the founders of Women’s Advocates in St. Paul reflected, “the children are afterthoughts. . . . it took a year for us to realize that the children need separate staff focus, advocacy, and support” (Smith and Freinkel 1988, 143). This slower expansion of services happened in part because it took time for shelters to accumulate the necessary resources and expertise. In part, however, it was an intentional and political strategy to offer minimal services at the onset. Organizers believed that services targeting poverty, inequality, and violence should be available to all women, regardless of whether they were battered and before they took the major step of leaving their homes. They resisted having privately organized IPV shelters shoulder these responsibilities, arguing that government agencies should take them on (Warrior 1978). Ultimately, however, it became clear that without these additional services, many women would not be able to leave emergency shelters. In 1976, Betsy Warrior, a founder of Boston-­based Cell 16, a women’s liberation group founded in 1968–­69 (Davis 1999), wrote and published Working on Wife Abuse, the first directory of programs in the United States serving battered women. It lists existing shelters, but also groups interested in opening shelters and serving battered women, and individuals interested in services for battered women, so thus offers a snapshot of a movement in the process of becoming a full-­fledged service sector (Warrior 1978).

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As the movement grew, it secured limited public funding: the federal Comprehensive Employment and Training Act paid some staff salaries as a job training initiative (Roberts 1981); some states taxed marriage licenses in order to fund shelters (Lerman 1980); and the Social Security Administration directed funds for temporary housing of neglected and abused children to support shelter operations (Pleck 2004). In 1977, the federal Law Enforcement Assistance Administration established a Family Violence Program, which lasted for three years and funded domestic violence service programs (Smith 1989). Notably, the federal Departments of Health, Education and Welfare6 and Housing and Urban Development (HUD) did not dedicate any funding to shelter development or operations until the late 1970s, when HUD determined that shelters were eligible to receive Community Development Block Grant funding for the purchase and rehabilitation of buildings, although not for operating and maintenance expenses (Schechter 1982). In 1979, the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) established an Office on Domestic Violence, but the Office lacked a legislative mandate to fund services directly and was absorbed by the National Center on Child Abuse and Neglect the next year (Smith and Freinkel 1988). By 1978, according to the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, there were more than three hundred shelters, hotlines, and advocacy groups (Tierney 1982). A monograph produced by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services in 1980 surveyed 163 groups serving IPV survivors, with the goal of determining how government intervention should be structured. Approximately 130 of the groups surveyed operated shelters, with an average capacity of fifteen individuals, an average stay of two weeks, and a maximum stay of one month.7 Shelters were funded primarily through individual donations, with some additional funding through the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act and public assistance subsidies. There were three volunteers for every paid staff member, and one-­seventh of the staff members were formerly battered.

The Local Shelter Movement Goes National In addition to addressing local service needs, many of the organizations that operated shelters sought to influence legislation, law enforcement,



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funding, and other mechanisms that would address the societal problems of abuse and inequality. In order to achieve these goals through policy advocacy, they forged alliances with national groups advocating for women’s equality (Ferree and Hess 2000). Claire Reinelt (1995) describes how this shift “onto the terrain of the state” simultaneously offered “opportunities for organizing and education” and for “divisions within the movement and for co-­optation of the movement’s agenda” (85).8 As Gretchen Arnold (1995) notes, the structure of political coalitions can contradict the tenets of some feminist ideologies. Radical feminist groups were uncomfortable working within rather than trying to dismantle state structures, whereas liberal groups aligned themselves with mainstream constituencies and interest groups as a means of achieving their goals—­many of which were the same as the radical feminists.9 Steven Rathgeb Smith and Susan Freinkel (1988) argue that while feminists exposed the issue of IPV in the 1970s, public policy response was aligned with a sociological response that saw the problem as family violence derived from an intergenerational cycle of violence. Thus, they argue, “wife abuse” became “domestic violence,” “male violence” became “the violent family,” and public funding focused on conventional service delivery rooted in psychology and social work, with the central concern of gender inequality excised from the response (137–­138). Much of the expansion of IPV shelters after the 1970s was driven by what Mary Katzenstein (1990) describes as “unobtrusive mobilization” within existing institutions, in contrast to the “street politics” and consciousness-­ raising of the 1960s and 1970s, when feminists and the women’s movement positioned themselves as outside the traditional power base. The strategy of unobtrusive mobilization was part of “second-­wave” feminism, and was perhaps the best option in the context of the overall conservative political climate of the 1980s and 1990s; Myra Ferree and Beth Hess (2000) term it a decade of “defensive consolidation” (159). These strategies were effective: by 1989, there were twelve hundred shelters in the United States, serving three hundred thousand women and children annually (Dobash and Dobash 1992, 70). In some states, shelters formed state coalitions in order to maintain a feminist, collective, advocacy-­oriented approach in the face of the increased institutionalization of shelters (Schechter 1982). On the national

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level, the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV) was formed in 1978. One of its goals was to develop a national network of shelters (Dobash and Dobash 1992). In 1990, advocates formed the National Network to End Domestic Violence (NNEDV), which is a membership and advocacy organization that seeks to provide resources to local communities as well as advocate on the national level. One of its initial goals was to promote federal legislation. Both organizations remain in existence today and work in complementary ways to organize, educate, and advocate on the national level. In the late 1970s and 1980s, when federal spending for social services declined overall, IPV programs fared better than many others because advocates lobbied for state and local funds (Smith 1989).

Professionalization of Shelter Administration and Expansion of Public Funding At the shelter level, tensions arose between those who saw themselves as community organizers and those who considered themselves primarily administrators. By the 1980s, many shelters had become institutionalized social service providers.10 Kathleen Ferraro (1981) surveyed 127 shelters and found that less than half originated with grassroots feminist efforts. Programs increasingly were structured hierarchically rather than collectively. Volunteers no longer ran shelters: when services became formalized, paid staff managed the volunteers and prescribed their responsibilities (Smith and Lipsky 1993). As battered women became clients rather than experts on their experiences, some advocates feared that the complexities of their situations would be lost, and they would be treated only as victims, without the ability to express their opinions and control their destinies. Lois Ahrens (1980) described a shelter in Austin, Texas, that began in 1976 with a structure that was explicitly collective and cooperative. As it developed a board and became more professionalized, distance developed between board members and the program, and the structure transformed into one that was bureaucratic and hierarchical. Many of the shelter’s original members were fired. She warned that “battered women’s shelters committed to the full empowerment of women will remain feminist in content and approach only by constant discussion, analysis, and vigilance” (15). Noelie Rodriguez



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(1988) describes a similar dilemma at a shelter in Hawaii that was established in 1978 by a grassroots group of feminists who were committed to a “counter-­bureaucratic structure” (215). She found that the shelter succeeded because of its commitment to feminist values and transcending patriarchal culture. Karen Kendrick (1997) also observed this transformation through a case study, and argued that increased attention toward psychological theories for abuse meant that shelter staff moved “the focus of domestic violence discourse towards therapeutic concerns and away from social or political ones” (160). The helper-­therapy principle, as evolved from a model developed in Alcoholics Anonymous, centered on confronting and addressing individual trauma, in contrast to the collective model espoused in the early shelters. As Ferree and Hess (2000) note, these changes meant that “few obstacles remain to the transformation of the original radical organization into a conventional community service, complete with an executive director, a board of trustees, and a fundraising/public relations specialist” (146; see also Wharton 1987; cf. Johnson 1981, who argues that bureaucracy and hierarchy nonetheless offered jobs and career paths to new populations, and that “co-­optation” was to some extent inevitable). The increased availability of public funding influenced these shifts. The availability of public funding sources led to conflict in some organizations. Government funders required their grantees to distinguish between clients and staff, establish requirements for staff experience and education, and institute clear lines of authority. These funds were to be used for services rather than for organizing or education. Moreover, public funding meant that many shelters became increasingly divorced from the movement that created them—­a movement that sought ultimately to attack gender inequality and abuse of power, and thus, as an early organizer put it, “the underlying business of a shelter must be aimed at putting itself out of business” (Warrior 1978, 63). By the late 1980s, most shelters were in the business of expanding and solidifying, not putting themselves out of business. As the activist Betsy Warrior (1978) noted, “those who acquire academic status or well paying jobs dependent on the existence of battered women might be reluctant indeed to attack the root causes of woman abuse if that would eventually deprive them of a comfortable niche” (63).

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Researchers have assessed the trajectory of nonprofits from informal advocacy vehicles to stable, often bureaucratic organizations with public and private funding. Suzanne Staggenborg (1988) studied professionalization and formalization in the pro-­choice movement during the same time frame as the battered women’s movement, and found that as organizations “formalized” and hired professional managers, they tended to be better than informal organizations at maintaining their stability. Formalized organizations were more appealing to institutional funders. They also were less likely to engage in direct-­action advocacy, but Staggenborg argues that they were not necessarily more oligarchical and conservative, as claimed by Frances Fox Piven and Richard Cloward (1977), nor less radical—­“an alternative interpretation is that movement demands and representatives become incorporated into mainstream politics” (Staggenborg 1988, 604). Moreover, as Lester Salamon (1987, 1995) has noted, government support of nonprofits can be justified by the limited resources of the nonprofit sector; its particularism and favoritism in focusing on subgroups; its paternalism when the sector takes the form of wealthy people doling out funds to those who are less fortunate; and its amateur rather than professional standards of care. Salamon (1995) also has argued persuasively that government and nonprofit spending and activity often result from the same intentions. As Michael Lipsky and Steven Smith (1989–­90) pointed out, however, nonprofits are vulnerable to government influence when they receive public funding, particularly in decisions around hiring, client eligibility, and facilities. Kimberly Morgan and Andrea Campbell (2011) similarly describe the political expedience of what they call “delegated governance” of social welfare programs. In 1984, the U.S. Family Violence Prevention Services Act (FVPSA) provided the first significant infusion of federal funding to organizations seeking to address IPV, with the appropriation of $34.6 million over four years. This legislation had been introduced in Congress beginning in 1977, but only passed when it was converted into an amendment attached to the reauthorization of the much less controversial Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act (Dobash and Dobash 1992). The same year, Congress created a mechanism by which fines collected from people convicted of federal crimes were directed into a victims’ fund, some of which supported shelters (Davis 1999).



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The onset of substantial government funding caused controversy within the movement, as some activists feared that it represented a loss of independence. In her case study of the battered women’s movement in Texas, Claire Reinelt (1994) explored how organizations could become driven by the availability of resources, and suggested that drift could be mitigated by feminist vision and practices within organizations. Nonetheless, this funding was vital to the expansion of shelters, and by 1999 there were approximately two thousand in the United States (Pleck 2004, xxvi). Nonprofits operating shelters often served as what Salamon terms “third-­party government,” a strategy to increase government involvement in the general welfare without also increasing its administrative infrastructure (Salamon 1987). As Steven Smith (1989) notes, with the exception of the FVPSA in 1984, most federal funding was for short-­term research and demonstration projects run by nonprofit organizations, which could be established via “backdoor” methods, more quickly than government programs—­and likewise could be more easily terminated. As a result, programs often were unstable (Smith 1989). Public funding also continued to create tension within the movement. In 1985, the U.S. Department of Justice awarded a $625,000 grant to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, and a conservative advocacy group protested federal funding going to “pro-­ lesbian, hard-­core feminists” (Spalter-­Roth and Schreiber 1995, 120). The NCADV accepted the funding with reservations, but then rejected it for a second year after the department refused to allow mention of lesbians or “women abuse” in publications produced with the grant funding.

A New Model: Transitional Housing In the 1980s, advocates and researchers began to recognize that many women needed more than a shelter stay to be ready for independent living. Many women, overwhelmed by the prospect of establishing new homes, returned to their abusers, only to reenter shelters when the abuse continued. In response, some shelters limited the number of times a woman could be served, which many advocates criticized as being tone deaf to the cycle of abuse and the limited resources available to support women in their transition to independence (Martin 1976; Roberts 1981). As Albert

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Roberts (1981) noted at the time, “what is desperately needed is a network of second-­stage housing, clusters of apartments where women and their children can live by themselves or with another former battered woman. The insecure once-­abused woman has a better chance of carving out a new life by living in an environment with easy access to women who share her traumatic history and who understand the entirely new set of problems with which she is confronted” (170). Some organizations, advocates, and scholars also were increasingly concerned about the trade-­offs involved in treating IPV primarily as an emergency issue, rather than a systemic one requiring systemic intervention. They felt that by framing IPV as an emergency, advocates and providers were unintentionally preventing the movement from securing a permanent commitment of government resources. As Michael Lipsky and Steven Smith (1989a) describe, identifying a social problem as an emergency draws public attention to it, and mobilizes resources in the short term, but does not simultaneously target resources toward resolving or ameliorating the problem. In fact, it may distort understanding of the severity of the problem by confusing need for services with demand for services. They note that when government recognizes a problem as an emergency and “contracts out” services responding to that emergency, as was the case with IPV services, the overall commitment is less than it would be if government established the full-­fledged bureaucracy necessary to address the problem. As with the development of emergency shelters, organizers of transitional housing in the United States looked toward the United Kingdom for models. In 1974 Chiswick Women’s Aid rented and renovated three large buildings to be used as “second stage” “residential community settlements” (Martin 1976, 240): they were for women who had passed the stage of intense danger due to abusive relationships and were interested in stabilizing their living situations. The organization also created third-­stage housing for women who wanted to continue to live communally for the long term (Walker 1979). In the United States, transitional housing programs for IPV survivors provide time-­limited housing, usually for one or two years, with supportive services geared toward helping women find and afford permanent housing, as well as stabilize their incomes. Nothing akin to third-­stage housing developed in the United States at that time.



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A Parallel Development: Homelessness and Responses The history of shelter and housing responses to IPV overlaps with similar responses to homelessness. The sometimes overlapping and sometimes diverging strategies have provided opportunities for collaboration, and have also strained limited resources. Street homelessness in the United States increased sharply among single adults in the 1970s and among families in the 1980s. Single homelessness primarily resulted from the deinstitutionalization of the mentally ill and the conversion of “flophouses” and single room occupancy hotels into permanent housing. Family homelessness could be traced to falling incomes, particularly in relation to housing costs (Hopper 2002; Jencks 1995). Initial responses to homelessness were similar to the response to domestic violence: nonprofits and local governments established emergency shelters and transitional housing. Responses to homelessness were not as explicitly tied to a single social movement as the first IPV shelters were born out of the women’s movement, however. The Stewart B. McKinney Homeless Assistance Act, passed in 1987, created and consolidated funding streams of $880 million with the goal of offering “a comprehensive package of housing and services to people who are homeless” (U.S. General Accounting Office 2000, 3). Much of this funding went toward shelters and transitional housing, and increased development of transitional housing. Until the 2000s, most homeless service providers emphasized transitional housing programs, of six to eighteen months in duration, to allow households to achieve “housing readiness.” Organizations providing services for IPV survivors used these funds to support transitional housing programs.

Transitional Housing Underscores the Need for Long-­Term Housing Transitional housing’s limitations became evident quickly. The transitional housing model originated within programs for people leaving mental hospitals and prisons, in order to support them as they left institutions and began to transition to independent living (Biegel and Naparstek 1982; Stevens 2005). The needs and goals of IPV survivors, most of whom did

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not have long histories of institutionalization, were less clear and rarely aligned with a standard service model. Most were familiar with independent living, but were thwarted by financial realities and by safety concerns, neither of which could be addressed adequately for most families by a stay in transitional housing. As decent and safe rental housing became increasingly unaffordable in many urban centers in the 1970s (Jencks 1995; Quigley and Raphael 2004), and no new public housing was built, it was difficult for any low-­ or moderate-­income household to find long-­term affordable housing, and families with histories of abuse had additional challenges to surmount. Jobs also were hard to come by. Albert Roberts (1981) noted the importance of employment for women’s financial stability and self-­worth, and recognized “women who have never been beaten and who have held responsible positions 15 years earlier but who quit work to raise a family are finding it difficult to return to the world of work” (166–­167). Moreover, the time that it took for survivors to be psychologically and financially ready to move to long-­term housing varied significantly, so the one-­or two-­year limits established by most transitional housing programs did not work for many survivors. Most households included children in school, and the stability of those children’s school experience can be undermined if they move first to emergency shelter, then to transitional housing, and then to long-­term housing. There is no clear imperative for transitional housing as a program strategy, and in many ways it contradicts the housing-­first philosophy. Transitional housing programs assume that households must demonstrate their readiness for permanent housing by meeting certain conditions, whereas the housing-­first model argues that households should receive permanent housing first, and then address other needs when their housing situations are stable. In 2005, HUD commissioned a formal assessment of the transitional housing for homeless families that it funded as part of its Supportive Housing Program, with a focus on family outcomes. The study followed 179 families in thirty-­six transitional housing programs for one year after they left the housing, and found that programs seemed to help families maintain stable housing, treat substance use, and secure employment. Importantly, however, the study did not compare these families to those who did not



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have access to transitional housing, so it is impossible to know if they would have secured these benefits in the absence of transitional housing (Burt 2010). Evaluations of programs funded by the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) that were conducted by the Muskie School of Public Service found that most people who lived in transitional housing funded by the federal Office on Violence Against Women ended up moving into permanent housing (Muskie School of Public Service 2013a, 2013b, 2014a, 2014b). A recent assessment of services for homeless IPV survivors (DeCandia, Beach, and Clervil 2013) considered the lack of integration between homeless and IPV service systems, noting that many homeless service providers were not versed in the issues facing IPV survivors. Some providers found the requirements of federally funded transitional housing to be too constrictive, given the varied paths that survivors take to some form of self-­sufficiency. Women Aware, in New Jersey, returned funding for transitional housing from the federal Office on Violence Against Women, because the organization’s leaders felt that “the time frame was off,” that the time limit imposed by the funding was too short for survivors to locate, apply for, and move to their own apartments.11

Shelters for IPV Survivors Today The current emergency domestic violence shelter system looks quite different from the programs that opened in the 1970s, although studies of women entering and leaving emergency shelters due to domestic violence have found consistently that support and safety were what they wanted and what they obtained from their shelter stays (Lyon, Lane, and Menard 2008; Tutty 2006; Tutty, Weaver, and Rothery 1999). Safety remains of paramount importance to shelter providers, but the funding and administration of shelters has changed. When family homelessness exploded in the United States in the 1980s, most localities developed shelter systems to respond to this problem, which has not abated. As a result, many of today’s shelters for IPV survivors and their families often are specialized components of a larger homeless service sector, funded by public and private sources, operated directly by localities or by large multiservice agencies with diverse funding bases. In New York City, for example, there is a legal right to shelter, and thus there is an extensive shelter system for families and single adults overseen

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by the city’s Department of Homeless Services. IPV survivors have access to a separate shelter system, overseen by the Office on Domestic Violence within the city’s Human Resources Administration. They do not have to go through the city’s centralized intake process. The Office of Domestic Violence directly oversees one shelter, and contracts with private organizations that provide an additional thirty-­eight emergency shelters and eight transitional housing facilities. Stays in IPV shelters are limited to 180 days, however, and less than 11 percent of families leave the NYC IPV shelter system for permanent housing.12 If a family does not secure housing at the end of its stay in the IPV shelter system, it is referred to the general homeless shelter system, which offers neither the security nor the supportive services of the IPV-­specific shelters. The National Network to End Domestic Violence’s annual twenty-­ four-­hour census of IPV shelters found in 2014 that with 89 percent of the 1,916 programs in the United States reporting, emergency shelters and transitional housing served more than thirty-­six thousand people in the one day examined (National Network to End Domestic Violence 2015). The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence reports that there are 3,083 organizations in the United States that provide some type of IPV services.13 The Family Violence Prevention Services Act, passed in 1984, continues to be the primary source of funding to services for IPV survivors. It is reauthorized every five years. Seventy percent of the funding is allocated to states, which subsequently allocate funds directly to service providers. In 2013, just over $121 million was appropriated and reached almost sixteen hundred shelters (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services 2014). The Family and Youth Services Bureau, within the Administration for Children and Families, part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, administers these funds. THE ESTABLISHMENT OF

emergency shelters for IPV survivors can be

viewed as a great success of the feminist movement. All states in the United States have state coalitions. Regardless of location, a survivor can call a hotline to obtain services and a possible placement in a shelter. For IPV survivors leaving emergency shelters, permanent housing options are much greater and more diverse than they were in the 1970s. They remain



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inadequate to meet the need, however, and IPV survivors have had to compete with a growing homeless population that is also trying to secure permanent housing. As chapter 4 will describe, much of the “safety net” available to low-­income families in the United States, in terms of both housing policy and income-­support policy, is not well matched to the needs of IPV survivors.

4 Mismatch between U.S. Social Policy and Intimate Partner Violence

Intimate partner violence survivors often struggle when they leave emergency shelters and transitional housing. Many have trouble accessing or qualifying for housing, income, and other social safety net supports designed for low-­income families. Advocates and providers have sought to make existing supports more accessible and effective for IPV survivors, and this work continues, but many survivors’ needs remain unmet. In many respects, survivors of IPV have financial needs similar to those of other low-­income women. Thus, the broader public social safety net should provide support for these women and their families. If domestic violence agencies are responsible for addressing emergency needs, such as safety and emergency shelter, why can’t the broader system of U.S. public services meet other longer-­term needs of IPV survivors? As we described in the previous chapter, early feminist organizers of emergency shelters were reluctant to provide services addressing poverty, inequality, and violence, because they believed those services were the responsibility of government and should be available to all women. Victoria, like many IPV survivors, stayed with her abuser for longer than was safe for her and her son in part because she was stymied by practical problems. He had incurred a large cell phone bill and a credit card bill in her name, so her credit was weak. She is a legal permanent resident in the United States and he threatened to report her to immigration authorities, which made her fearful and doubtful even though her immigration status was valid. His mother provided free childcare while Victoria worked. 60



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IPV survivors, like Victoria, must navigate a landscape with limited housing and income support options even for those who have not experienced IPV. This situation impedes survivors’ abilities to leave abusive situations and compromises their ability to remain violence-­free and become psychologically and financially stable after an escape. In this chapter, we discuss the available supports, the barriers that survivors experience, and the mismatch between programs and policies and the specific needs of IPV survivors. We begin by describing U.S. housing policy and programs and considering their relevance to IPV survivors. In contrast to other countries, the United States offers little government support for affordable housing, and most support subsidizes the private housing market via subsidies and other “demand side” mechanisms. This primacy of the private market can make it difficult to create the coordinated system of social supports that is critical to meet the complex housing and service needs of IPV survivors and their families. We then focus on income support policies, specifically cash assistance. IPV survivors often turn to public assistance to meet their financial needs. Recent changes to existing programs, including Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, more commonly known as “welfare,” have hurt IPV survivors. Moreover, the changes to these benefits parallel a more general societal and cultural view that the private safety net, without public funds, can adequately support vulnerable families and that “self-­sufficiency” means no public support at all. This chapter highlights how these continuing inadequacies of public support, in terms of both housing and income, affect families like Victoria’s.

Housing Affordability and Programs in the United States Even as the United States is well on its way to recovering from the mortgage and housing crisis of 2008–­2009, housing remains unaffordable for a large and growing segment of the population. The 2014 State of the Nation’s Housing, a report published annually by the Joint Center for Housing Studies of Harvard University since 1988, called it a “crisis of affordability,” noting that in 2012 more than a third of U.S. households were “cost-­ burdened,” paying more than 30 percent of their income for housing costs, and more than one-­quarter were severely burdened, paying more than half

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of their income for housing. Unsurprisingly, the affordability crisis is even more severe among low-­income households: in 2012, 82 percent of households earning less than $15,000 a year paid more than 30 percent of their income for housing, and 69 percent paid more than half of their incomes. Racial minorities experience higher cost burdens than white households do. Renters face somewhat more severe burdens than owners do, particularly as the foreclosure crisis has meant that more households are involuntarily entering the rental market after losing their homes to foreclosure (Joint Center for Housing Studies 2014). The National Low Income Housing Coalition’s annual report, Out of Reach, calculates a “Housing Wage”—­the hourly wage that a worker would need to earn in order to afford a two-­ bedroom housing unit at a rent that HUD has determined to be the fair market rent for the area, while not spending more than 30 percent of her or his income on housing costs. In 2014, the Housing Wage was $18.92, more than 2.5 times the federal minimum wage (National Low Income Housing Coalition 2014). Monthly housing costs for owners can be eased by lowered interest rates, but it is unlikely that renters will see more affordability. Such a change would require significant production of new affordable housing, as well as adequate funding of rental assistance programs. U.S. housing policy is not moving in this direction. Moreover, high rental housing burdens in large part reflect declining renter incomes, a trend since 2001. This trend requires policy intervention that is beyond the housing sphere, and it is particularly relevant to IPV survivors, many of whom have lost jobs and opportunities for enhancing their skills as a result of domestic violence (Adams et al. 2012; Riger, Ahrens, and Blickenstaff 2000). When households cannot afford market rate housing prices, they cut back in other ways. When they make decisions about how to reduce their housing expenses, safety can be one of the first concessions: families may feel that they have no choice but to live in neighborhoods with high crime rates, or in housing that does not protect adequately against outside intrusion. These concessions may not be reasonable options to IPV survivors who already fear for the safety of themselves and their children and need to keep their locations undisclosed, so they may instead cut back by renting housing with code violations and other hazardous conditions, or in neighborhoods that are inconvenient to transportation, jobs, and



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other amenities. As Marisa Beeble, Cris Sullivan, and Deborah Bybee (2011) have found, living in a disadvantaged neighborhood can further compromise the well-­being of vulnerable IPV survivors. Alternatively, they may reduce their spending on other basic needs, such as food and healthcare. A 2014 survey found that of renters and owners who paid more than 30 percent of their incomes on housing costs, 27 percent had stopped saving for their retirement, 23 percent had cut back on healthcare, and 23 percent had credit card debt (Hart Research Associates 2014). If families are faced with rent increases they cannot afford, their fluctuating incomes mean that they are unable to continue to pay even a stable rent, or if their safety becomes compromised, these survivors will need to move frequently. Frequent moves can disrupt schooling, job attendance or searches, and childcare, among other services. Therefore, at a time when IPV survivors are expected to quickly become psychologically and financially self-­sufficient, they are confronted with even more challenges than other low-­income households because of the importance of safety in their housing decisions. In tight housing markets, simply locating a housing unit is more challenging for many IPV survivors if they need to move to new neighborhoods to escape their abusers, and thus they cannot rely on their existing social networks for their housing search. Logistical barriers to finding apartments and signing leases and maintaining those situations can be substantial for survivors. Survivors sometimes struggle to produce necessary documentation and ensure that former batterers did not put them at risk for eviction. Some survivors flee their homes without important documents such as Social Security cards or driver’s licenses, because their abusers restrict their access to such legal documents as a way of controlling mobility and freedom. In addition, in some relationships leaving does not stop the abuse; batterers continue to stalk and harass women, often causing situations that can violate lease conditions. Low-­ income people in the United States who are unable to afford market-­ rate rental housing compete for a limited number of affordable housing units.1 The Urban Institute found that, in 2012, 11.5 million extremely low income households (earning less than 30 percent of the Area Median Income) competed for 3.3 million affordable housing units (Urban Institute 2014). In 2011, the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban

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Development found that 19.3 million households were eligible for rental subsidies, but only 4.6 million received them (Joint Center for Housing Studies 2014). Housing is not a right in the United States, and thus people compete for units that are unevenly distributed, with different eligibility criteria and application processes. The primary types of affordable housing in the United States are public housing, rental assistance, and privately constructed affordable housing, mostly subsidized via the federal Low Income Housing Tax Credit (LIHTC) program. We will discuss each in turn, and its relevance to IPV survivors.

Public Housing The public housing program, created in 1937 as part of the early New Deal, is the only housing program in the United States in which federal funds pay for the construction and operation of affordable housing, which is operated by local public housing authorities (PHAs). Public housing must be available only to low-­income households, but in most localities, by either policy or practice, it serves primarily extremely low-­income households. Households pay 30 percent of their adjusted incomes for housing costs. Rent is adjusted as income increases or decreases.2 Once a significant affordable housing resource, public housing availability has been shrinking since the 1970s. No new public units have been built since that time, many have been demolished and replaced by vouchers as part of the HOPE VI housing revitalization program, and local housing authorities, which are responsible for running individual programs, have not received enough federal funding for operation and maintenance of what are now aging buildings. Because of its concentrations of very low income families, public housing often has supportive services available to residents, either on-­site or via linkage agreements. The issue of IPV has a complicated relationship to public housing. On the one hand, given its affordability and the availability of supportive services, public housing seems like a natural resource for IPV survivors. In many places, IPV survivors receive priority status for placement off a PHA’s waiting list. In cities where waiting lists for public housing can be years long, this priority is critically important. On the other hand, in large part because of the racism of local officials and residents of white communities when the majority of public housing



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was developed in the 1940s and ‘50s, it is often located in isolated low-­ income neighborhoods with high crime rates (Hirsch 1998; Jackson 1985; Sugrue 1996). Due to inadequate federal funding for operations, aging infrastructure, and “towers in the park” design that seemed forward-­ thinking at the time but has proven to obstruct safety,3 many public housing projects are dangerous places. Public housing may not be a place where IPV survivors feel secure. In addition, concerns about safety and crime led to federal policy that has made it difficult for many IPV survivors to gain admission to public housing, and even to eviction of existing residents. In 1996 Congress enacted a “one strike and you’re out” policy for public housing residents, which mandated the eviction of residents if anyone living in a public housing unit, or a guest or a visitor, engaged in certain criminal activities on or near the premises. Under the Housing Opportunity Act of 1996, after the eviction residents are barred from receiving federal housing assistance for life, although there is a procedure by which they can apply for reinstatement (HUD 1996). Most evictions under the law have been based on crimes related to violence or drugs. Because, in some abusive relationships, abusers continue to stalk and harass women well after an escape, survivors are put into situations that violate their public housing lease conditions. For the first ten years of this law’s existence, it meant that IPV survivors were what Lenora Lapidus (2003) has termed “doubly victimized”—­ they were evicted or discriminated against because of their status as IPV victims (Renzetti 2001). In 2005, amendments to the law via the Violence Against Women Act clarified that a resident cannot be evicted from public housing or housing subsidized by a Section 8 voucher under this policy if she or a member of her family has been a victim of domestic violence or stalking.4 In enacting these changes, Congress acknowledged that “women and families across the country are being discriminated against, denied access to, and even evicted from public and subsidized housing because of their status as victims of domestic violence.”5 IPV survivors who are aware of this exemption no longer face the double victimization, but it is likely that not all survivors know about it, and that many survivors face indirect discrimination. The 2013 reauthorization of VAWA extended these protections, including expanding the list of housing programs that the provision applies to6—­most notably, for purposes of this discussion,

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to include housing financed with the Low Income Housing Tax Credit, discussed below. It also included provisions requiring a transfer process for public housing residents who are battered but want to remain in public housing.

Rental Assistance The federal Housing Choice Voucher program, commonly referred to as “Section 8,” because it is authorized by Section 8 of the Housing Act of 1937, was created in 1974 by the Housing and Community Development Act of 1974. The program is funded through HUD and operated by local PHAs. Like the public housing program, funding levels depend on appropriations authorized by Congress, and thus can vary significantly depending on congressional priorities and preferences. Income-­eligible households receive vouchers that allow them to rent housing on the private market, at a total rent that does not exceed a fair market rent established by HUD for the area. Like public housing residents, Section 8 recipients pay 30 percent of their adjusted income in housing costs, and this amount adjusts when household income increases or decreases. The voucher subsidizes the remainder of the rent. Many local governments have created their own voucher programs that are not necessarily funded by Section 8 and may be population-­specific, including ones designated for IPV survivors. As an example, New York City’s Living in Communities rental assistance programs were created in 2014 to move homeless families out of shelters. One of these subsidy programs, LINC III, is targeted to families living in domestic violence shelters, and is funded by city tax levy funds and by the city’s allocation of the federal HOME block grant (NYC Human Resources Administration 2015). When the Section 8 program was created, its goal was to address the issues of rising private market rents, as well as the economic and racial segregation created by the location of public housing (Beck 1996; Maney and Crowley 2000; Tegeler, Hanley, and Liben 1995). It was designed to give recipients more choice about where they lived. The program has been popular across the political spectrum, because it puts public money into the private market, and does not require the production of new housing units, while simultaneously subsidizing rents for low-­income households. In the forty years since its creation, however, its success has run up against



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unanticipated challenges. These challenges include the increasingly limited stock of housing that is priced within the fair market rents established by HUD, and also meets the housing quality standards established by the law and regulations. This problem is particularly severe in urban high-­cost areas. Moreover, landlords are not required under federal law to accept Section 8 subsidies, although some state and local laws impose such a requirement. As a result, “voucher success rates” are distressingly low in many areas: a 2001 study found that nationally, 69 percent of households awarded Section 8 vouchers successfully used them to rent housing, and the rate ranged from 61 percent in tight markets to 80 percent in loose markets (Abt Associates 2001). Thus, IPV survivors, who already face particular constraints on where they can live safely, may experience additional problems using Section 8 vouchers even if they are lucky enough to be awarded one. Since Section 8 requires voucher-­holders to enter and negotiate on the private market, moreover, IPV survivors with Section 8 vouchers are exposed to the discrimination in that market. In addition to housing discrimination by race and gender that has a disproportionate impact on IPV survivors, landlords may discriminate against survivors, particularly in tight markets, when they can be selective about their tenants (Lapidus 2003; Weiser and Boehm 2002).7

Private Market Affordable Housing The last type of permanent housing available to IPV survivors who cannot afford to enter the private housing market as renters or buyers is what is often generically referred to as “affordable housing.” Developed by either nonprofit or for-­profit housing corporations, affordable housing consists of units in private housing developments funded with sources that impose restrictions on some or all of the housing units in terms of residents’ incomes and maximum rent levels. By far the most prevalent type is housing financed via Low Income Housing Tax Credits. Since its creation in 1986, the tax credit program has financed more than 2.5 million rental housing units (National Council of State Housing Finance Agencies 2012)—­more than twice the number of public housing units in the United States. Tax credits, awarded by state housing agencies to projects that meet the agencies’ stated housing priorities, provide an infusion of capital after affordable housing developers “syndicate” or sell the credits

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to corporations that can use them to offset tax liabilities. As a mechanism to create affordable housing that simultaneously enriches the private market, LIHTCs have enjoyed widespread support. The LIHTC program has faced criticisms. The funding process is complex and has high transaction costs (Stegman 1992). Projects are disproportionately located in minority and low-­income neighborhoods, because of incentives built into the program to locate projects in high-­poverty Census tracts (Freeman 2004). Finally, affordable housing is often relatively unaffordable for very low and extremely low income households, who often end up relying on Section 8 vouchers even when they are living in “affordable” housing (Furman Center 2012). The capital raised with LIHTCs has been used to develop housing for IPV survivors, both by constructing new housing and by rehabilitating existing housing. Developers, whether nonprofit or for-­profit, can include a developer’s fee in the capital that they raise from syndicating the tax credits. Therefore, groups developing IPV-­specific housing can use this fee to pay for staff salaries or organizational overhead. Development almost always requires additional funding sources, however, so groups need to be able to access these sources, which usually involve grants and loans from state and local governments, and from financial institutions. Housing finance of any type is complicated and requires experience that many IPV service providers do not have; LIHTCs are particularly complex. Moreover, state housing agencies set the priorities by which they award LIHTCs to proposed projects, so if IPV survivors are not considered a priority population, projects are not in priority areas, or developers do not have the appropriate experience, projects may not be funded.

Income Support Policies in the United States After transitioning out of emergency shelters and transitional housing, where IPV survivors live rent-­free, many cannot afford to pay for housing, support their families, and make progress toward other financial goals without other public support. Even when rent is subsidized based on income, many survivors, like other low-­income families, struggle to find sufficient resources to make ends meet and pay for other necessities. The impact of economic abuse often lasts longer than physical injuries.



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Rebuilding damaged credit, gaining access to joint resources, creating a professional network, and finding employment often take a significant amount of time. Thus, safety net programs that provide income assistance can be critically important for survivors and their families. The safety net in the United States has evolved into a system with two, unequal types of programs. The first type has evolved in relationship to the labor market and with a firm foundation in the American ethic of hard work and the American Dream. Within this type, we discuss both social insurance and tax-­based programs. The second type of programs is means-­tested, meaning that recipients must be low income to qualify, and is usually referred to as “welfare.” Although both types of programs could assist survivors to some extent, barriers to access are great.

Labor-­Market-­Related Programs Social insurance and tax-­based policies are intrinsically tied to current or former participation in the formal labor market. First, social insurance programs are designed for individuals who have been negatively affected by the labor market or are unable to participate in the labor market due to old age or disability. The main social insurance programs include unemployment insurance, Social Security, and disability. Unemployment insurance provides monthly assistance to workers who become unemployed under certain circumstances; these individuals have usually been laid off due to downsizing or the closing of a company or have otherwise lost their job through “no fault of their own.” Social Security is designed for retirees and families of retired workers, and Social Security Disability Insurance is for workers who become disabled. Monthly benefit amounts vary, but in September 2015 they averaged $1,264 for a retiree, $1,130 for a disabled worker, and substantially more for someone who is supporting a family (Social Security Administration 2015). Second, tax-­based programs, specifically the Earned Income Tax Credit (EITC), benefit low-­income workers. When filing taxes, low-­income families may qualify for benefits instead of paying taxes. The EITC enjoys bipartisan support as researchers agree that the EITC has positive effects on labor force participation (Meyer 2010). As both social insurance and tax-­based programs are related to labor market participation, women have traditionally benefited less than men have. The gender wage gap, part-­time employment, and decisions to leave

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the formal labor market temporarily or permanently to do care work at home are factors that mean women typically receive lower social insurance payments than men (Smeeding 1999). IPV survivors, whose employment may have been compromised by experiences of abuse, leading them to quit or be fired, are at a particular disadvantage in accessing these programs, particularly unemployment insurance. Because eligible workers must have lost employment “through no fault of their own,” individuals who quit or are fired are usually not eligible. IPV survivors who lost employment may not immediately think of applying for unemployment benefits. However, intimate partner violence, particularly instances that put survivors or their family members at risk of physical harm, serves as an exception in some states. The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 grants states funding if they offer benefits to individuals who separate from their place of employment for “compelling family reasons.” Domestic violence is listed among possible reasons and is defined as “Domestic violence, verified by such reasonable and confidential documentation as the State law may require, which causes the individual reasonably to believe that such individual’s continued employment would jeopardize the safety of the individual or of any member of the individual’s immediate family” (441).8 Subsequent to the passage of this federal legislation, a number of states passed state legislation to extend benefits in cases of domestic violence. In 2014, Legal Momentum reviewed state practices and found that thirty-­seven states and the District of Columbia have adopted related laws or regulations that make provisions for instances of domestic violence (Legal Momentum 2014). The number of survivors who are aware of these protections and make use of benefits is likely much less than the number that qualify, and, of course, survivors would need to meet the other eligibility requirements including having earned at least a minimum amount of wages with an employer who contributed labor taxes.

Means-­Tested Programs and Public Cash Assistance Means-­tested programs are often categorized as a distinct approach to social policy. These programs, which are usually the ones that come to mind when one hears “safety net,” include programs like Temporary Assistance for Needy Families—­commonly known as “welfare.” TANF provides a monthly cash amount to eligible families.9 Many low-­income households



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also receive targeted public help, including health insurance through the Medicaid program, and “food stamps,” formally named the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP). Other noncash, means-­tested benefits include housing assistance, utilities assistance, childcare vouchers, and free and reduced lunch and breakfast programs. Recipients of these benefits, unlike individuals who use social insurance programs, must have an income below a certain threshold and must possess very few assets. Again, unlike recipients of social insurance benefits, means-­ tested program recipients are stigmatized and often portrayed unfavorably in the media. The differences in political and popular support for the two approaches to social welfare have resulted in what many view as a two-­ tiered system, in which means-­tested programs and their recipients come under more critical scrutiny. Means-­tested programs are less generous than social insurance programs. The maximum monthly TANF benefit in 2013 for a family of three ranged from $170 in Mississippi to $923 in Alaska (Huber, Kassabian, and Cohen 2014), strikingly less than the average benefits from social insurance programs, which hover around $1,200 per month for an individual. Of course, most TANF recipients also receive other forms of support, such as SNAP. The average SNAP benefit for a family is $257 a month. However, families that receive both SNAP and TANF still fall below 75 percent of the poverty line in forty-­eight states, with only Alaska and New York as the exceptions (Floyd and Schott 2015). In addition to the comparatively less generous support provided by means-­tested programs, the passage of the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act of 1996 (PRWORA) brought major changes to the delivery of welfare benefits in the United States.10 This major shift in policy was motivated in part by the rapidly increasing cash assistance caseload of the 1980s and public perception that recipients were lazy and taking advantage of the system (Gilens 1999; Sparks 2003). Experts attributed the growth in TANF recipients to a combination of economic, program, and demographic changes at the time (Congressional Budget Office 1991). PRWORA eliminated “welfare” as an entitlement by replacing the old Aid to Families with Dependent Children with TANF. The new legislation changed state-­level rules and incentives, giving states more flexibility and autonomy. This devolution of power from the federal level to the

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states, and, in some states, from the state to the county level, was seen by some as a way to empower locales to respond to local needs. Others were concerned with the loss of uniformity and equity in the program. The new program also changed the funding structure to a system of block grants to states. Rather than drawing down unlimited federal funding, states were limited to a fixed block grant. A block grant structure can be problematic because it is mismatched with the economy; states have fewer resources when the number of recipients increases during a recession. The 1996 welfare reform also changed the philosophy of welfare to work first and drastically altered the experiences of applicants and recipients. The second goal of TANF, as stated in the law, is to “end the dependence of needy parents on government benefits by promoting job preparation, work, and marriage.”11 States were required to create time limits and require sanctions for noncompliance with work requirements for welfare recipients, but were given some flexibility in how they defined these rules. In the early years of welfare reform, the economy was strong and the introduction of stricter work and program requirements resulted in dramatic caseload reductions and increases in employment among single mothers (Blank 2002). Other scholars, however, have found that the rules of the program can dissuade women from applying for or returning to the program, essentially serving as a barrier to access (Mead 2000; Moffit 2003; Seefeldt 2008). Currently, only about one in every four eligible individuals applies for and receives TANF; this participation rate is down from 84 percent in 1995 (Crouse, Douglas, and Hauan 2007). In contrast, the uptake rate for SNAP, a program with fewer program requirements and rules, has risen from 54 percent of eligible individuals in 2002 to 83 percent in 2012 (Center on Budget and Policy Priorities 2015).

The Family Violence Option Domestic violence agencies and advocates hypothesized that some of the new requirements imposed by PRWORA would unfairly penalize victims and perhaps put them at risk for continuing or escalating abuse (Kurz 1998). Additionally, IPV is a substantial barrier for many welfare recipients in meeting work activity requirements due to the detrimental effect of abuse on physical and mental health (Tolman and Rosen 2001) and employability (Riger and Staggs 2004; Shepard and Pence 1998). Social



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science surveys demonstrate that abuse is a common experience among welfare recipients with estimates of between 25 percent and 50 percent of the welfare population experiencing abuse currently or in the recent past (Tolman and Raphael 2000). To address these concerns, Congress enacted the Family Violence Option (FVO), which allows states to exempt victims from time limits and work and child support requirements. Senators Paul Wellstone (D-­MN) and Patti Murray (D-­WA) introduced the FVO first as an amendment to the original welfare reform legislation, and it was later included as a voluntary state-­level option. The U.S. General Accounting Office reported in 2005 that forty-­seven states and the District of Columbia had adopted and implemented the FVO or a comparable policy as part of their welfare program (U.S. GAO 2005). As of 2011, all states had policies addressing the needs of domestic violence survivors; specifically, thirty-­eight states and the District of Columbia had adopted the FVO and the remaining twelve had similar state-­specific policies (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services 2013). The specific waivers and practice and implementation decisions vary extensively. The FVO obligates states that adopt the provision to screen for domestic violence, to offer service referrals to local domestic violence organizations, and to exempt certain victims from the program requirements tied to receiving TANF. These exemptions are given for requirements that would make leaving an abusive situation difficult, would unfairly penalize formerly abused women, or would put women at risk of abuse by an estranged partner. Exemptions include good-­ cause waivers from the five-­year lifetime limit, work participation requirements, and child support requirements. The ultimate goal of the FVO is to promote safety and self-­sufficiency by assisting women to receive proper domestic violence services and access financial resources, including public benefits and employment. The option does not limit states in how they implement its requirements. For example, regarding service referrals, the legislation simply states “refer such individuals to counseling and supportive services,” and does not outline any requirements regarding who should offer such services, where they should be located, or when the referral should take place.12 To comply with the FVO, each state had to develop a method by

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which survivors would be screened and assessed for domestic violence before giving waivers. Moreover, in designing their actual FVO programs, state agencies had little practice wisdom on which to draw since, previously, domestic violence had not been an explicit concern of public welfare practice. Although researchers and practitioners agree that the domestic violence barrier has important implications for welfare reform, studies of administrative data indicate that very few women have disclosed as victims of domestic violence to welfare caseworkers and even fewer have received a waiver through the FVO (Lindhorst and Padgett 2005; Postmus 2004). During the first year of implementation of the Option, less than 1 percent of participating states’ welfare caseloads opted for the waiver (Lennett 1997). State-­level studies show similar results of waiver uptake and disclosure rates to welfare caseworkers between 5 and 10 percent (Lein et al. 2001; Levin 2001; Raphael and Haennicke 1999). This discrepancy between the prevalence of domestic violence among welfare recipients, with conservatively one in every four women experiencing abuse, and the rate at which the FVO is used, with about one in every hundred women receiving services, has led to concerns among policymakers, practitioners, and advocates about the appropriateness and efficacy of the FVO. A number of factors could be responsible for the low disclosure rates. The optional nature of the FVO, coupled with the philosophy of devolution and local flexibility, has made the program inconsistent. Implementation varies from state to state, from county to county, from welfare department to welfare department, and even from caseworker to caseworker. Recent research suggests that the low disclosure rates are likely due to a variety of factors including poor screening practices, inadequate training of caseworkers, and distrust on the part of welfare applicants and recipients. Together these issues suggest a disconnect between the program and the needs of the target population. First, perhaps agencies have not adequately designed and implemented screening practices. Even though the FVO mandates that states screen for IPV, the act of screening depends on local-­ level decisions about protocols as well as the actions and decisions made by caseworkers. Research on the implementation of the FVO supports the existence of a disconnect between policy in writing and practice on the front line



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(Lindhorst, Meyers, and Casey 2008). In-­ depth interviews with welfare recipients reveal that many women report not being asked about abuse (Postmus 2004; Saunders et al. 2005). Even when they are implemented and followed consistently, screening protocols may be inadequate. In one national survey of six hundred caseworkers, only 23 percent felt that the FVO was working well (Casey et al. 2010). Research on best practices offers some guidelines for designing and implementing effective procedures. Collaboration with domestic violence agencies and community coordination result in better screening and referral procedures (Burt, Zweig, and Schlichter 2000). Established screening practices designed to increase disclosures include adequate procedures for maintaining confidentiality (Lindhorst and Padgett 2005) and direct questions about specific behaviors (Saunders et al. 2005). A second, and very related, aspect of the disconnect between the FVO and the needs of IPV survivors is the lack of training that caseworkers receive on IPV. Screening instruments and assessment tools are most effective when the staff utilizing them have an understanding of the dynamics of IPV (Saunders et al. 2005). Jan Hagen and Judith Owens-­Manley (2002) found that some caseworkers are skeptical of women who have not taken steps to end the abuse, indicating a lack of understanding. Analysis of Maryland data revealed that caseworkers are more likely to offer services to women who disclosed experiences of severe physical abuse as opposed to other types of IPV (Hetling 2011). Specialized training in using screening instruments and in understanding the dynamics of abuse could likely result in better adherence to screening protocols (Lindhorst, Meyers, and Casey 2008; Postmus 2004). Third, perhaps women choose not to disclose domestic violence to their caseworkers. Potentially eligible women may, for a variety of reasons, elect not to request a waiver or accept one if offered (Lein et al. 2001). Women have expressed fear of child welfare involvement or increased demands from the welfare office (Postmus 2004). Comparing welfare office disclosures to survey research disclosures, one state-­level study found that women who felt comfortable disclosing abuse to their caseworkers were more likely to be white and have higher levels of education, raising the concern about racial disparities in who benefits from the policy (Hetling, Saunders, and Born 2006). Although it is possible that the culture of

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welfare offices may evolve with an increase in the training of and understanding among caseworkers, the lack of trauma-­informed protocols and policies remains a barrier that requires structural change. THIS CHAPTER DESCRIBES

multiple inadequacies and mismatches when

IPV survivors attempt to access existing housing and income support programs. These shortcomings have spurred providers and advocates to create housing and service models that are tailored to survivors’ unique needs, even though the funding and support for these models are uneven. The legislative successes described in this chapter make the safety net more accessible to IPV survivors by protecting them against discrimination and by altering rules that unfairly penalize survivors. For the most part, these laws, like certain VAWA provisions and the FVO, do not need dedicated funding streams or appropriations. Thus, action on the federal level, spurred by advocates, is more likely. Developing new programs and models to fill gaps in the safety net, particularly related to housing, is more challenging because of the associated costs. The next chapter focuses on the national landscape of housing for IPV survivors, in terms of public policies and program models. The future of long-­term housing for IPV survivors depends in part on how national, state, and local policymakers understand the models and their impact.

5 National Overview Legislative Response and Program Variations

New Destiny Housing, the nonprofit organization that owns and operates the housing where Victoria lives and that we discuss in chapter 2, provides what it calls a services-­light model to its residents. A full-­time paraprofessional tenant support coordinator focuses on referrals and linkages to other specialized programs. This structure developed because the organization, like many others, must stretch scarce dollars to serve its residents. New Destiny and similar organizations developed long-­term housing specifically to serve IPV survivors in response to the challenges survivors faced with time-­limited shelter and transitional housing options, as described in chapter 3, and the inadequacies of U.S. housing and income support policies, as described in chapter 4. Permanent supportive housing (PSH), which combines housing with supportive services, originated in the 1980s as a strategy to serve single adults with multiple barriers to stability. As organizations serving IPV survivors began to address the need for long-­term housing, many adapted the permanent supportive housing model. But there is no dedicated funding source to support PSH for IPV survivors, so providers must be creative and cost-­conscious. The funding sources that support emergency shelters and transitional housing for IPV survivors cannot be used to finance permanent housing or to pay for long-­term supportive services. Low Income Housing Tax Credits, which often finance the development of permanent housing, do not offer any ongoing funding for service provision. It is clear that truly supportive housing for IPV survivors and their families requires a significant level and range of services to help families become stable. 79

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Permanent housing programs for IPV survivors therefore draw from and adapt a range of public and private funding sources that support the development of affordable housing for all populations. As a result, there is significant variation among approaches to providing long-­term housing for IPV survivors. There is also not a clear consensus among advocates and providers as to how or whether housing can best support IPV survivors, and what goals should be prioritized. The philosophical gulf between addressing IPV survivors’ immediate needs by providing emergency shelter, on the one hand, and addressing long-­term stability through housing, on the other hand, is substantial. The two approaches demand different skills and backgrounds from administrators and service providers. They also require reordering of priorities. As one state coalition director reflected on the beginning of the shift toward permanent housing: “The domestic violence movement’s been for years focused on crisis prevention. And this is a whole new model of thinking beyond the crisis so when things settle down what will it take to help someone become really stabilized.”1 This chapter will consider these variations, which suggest a range of future paths for long-­term housing for IPV survivors. The purpose of this chapter is twofold. First, we describe the increasing attention to long-­term housing among IPV service providers, and the national legislative response to the issue of housing and IPV. Second, we describe some of the housing and service models that organizations have created to meet the housing needs of IPV survivors.2 We consider two different, but complementary, approaches. The first approach encompasses programs that are adaptations and variations of the permanent supportive housing model. The second approach consists of innovations in place—­modifying the existing affordable housing systems in ways that make them accessible to IPV survivors, and supportive and flexible enough so that survivors can live as independently as possible. Before describing these approaches and programs that exemplify them, we consider how organizations became confronted with the need for long-­term housing options.

IPV Survivors and the Housing Crisis As described in chapter 3, in the 1970s and 1980s advocates and service providers emphasized the need for survivors to leave abusive situations



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immediately, not find new, permanent homes. In the early 2000s, however, the macro-­economic environment put great stress on this service model, at both entry and exit points. Shelters were filled to capacity and some urban areas had waiting lists for beds. IPV survivors who were in emergency shelters confronted a shortage of affordable housing, which was a problem for all low-­income households. The challenges of availability, accessibility, and appropriateness of public housing and related social services exacerbated the need for appropriate and affordable permanent housing. As a longtime advocate and provider recalled: People were still leaving shelter in large numbers without having safe housing and then, you know, they tended to cycle through the system again. When people left the system, a lot of them were going to unstable living situations, so they were doubling up, tripling up with relatives, with people that they were acquainted with. A few people went directly into the general home system [shelters for all homeless households], and a number of people went back to the batterer. So it wasn’t a great outcome—­if you spent a lot of money on shelter, you would like to see, you know, at the end of the stay [that] people were in fact in a better situation and that the kids were protected and that there was at least a chance for improved life outcome.

When Victoria and her son were in the domestic violence shelter system in New York City, they moved to a new shelter every three months. Every three months, the city had to prepare a new room for them, move their belongings to the new shelter, and brief a new set of staff. Victoria had to figure out new transportation routes, new shopping areas, and new emergency childcare providers. “When I was in the DV shelter, I was late,” she remembered. “It was hard to keep a job. I would come to work dirty, looking messed up, never on time, and I was embarrassed. . . . I used to wake up at 4 a.m., take my son to the sitter, go to work, and go back to the DV shelter.” Eventually she lost her job because of her frequent tardiness. She worried most about the impact on her son: “He had to adapt to a new babysitter. We were exhausted. I appreciate that we weren’t on the

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street but it’s so hard to keep up with it. You wake up one day, you lose your loved one, you lose your bed, your children lose their bed, and you have to go to different places.” Advocates saw that shelters like those used by Victoria and her son were neither efficient nor effective in the long-­term, for survivors, providers, and the government agencies that fund them. They were expensive to operate and, although critical for immediate safety, did little to address IPV survivors’ long-­term stability and their ability to remain independent from abuse. Thus, providers and advocates began to develop population-­ specific housing models for IPV survivors.

National Legislative Response Since 2005 the U.S. Congress has made targeted and significant amendments to the Violence Against Women Act and the Homeless Emergency Assistance and Rapid Access to Housing (HEARTH) Act that provide more long-­term housing options and protections for IPV survivors. In response to years of lobbying by the domestic violence advocacy community, the 2005 reauthorization of the 1994 federal Violence Against Women Act incorporated several housing provisions. It allocated $10 million annually from 2007 to 2011 “to fund collaborative efforts to create permanent housing options for victims that help develop communities and leverage private dollars.”3 This allocation was so small to begin with, however, that it was meaningful only as a gesture. Consider our case studies: the cost of rehabilitating Rose Hill, described in the next chapter, was $8 million, and acquisition and development of The Anderson, described in chapter 2, was $15 million. The funding allocation subsequently was eliminated in the 2013 reauthorization of VAWA. The 2005 and 2013 reauthorizations included other provisions, however, that extended critical protections to residents of or applicants for federally subsidized housing programs. VAWA now protects residents or applicants from being denied admission or evicted from housing on the basis that the resident or applicant has been a victim of IPV, sexual assault, or stalking. After expansion in the 2013 reauthorization, these protections now apply to most federal housing programs. The 2013 reauthorization also included requirements for emergency transfers to other housing units



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within the same program, if a survivor’s safety is threatened. These provisions should mean that most survivors do not need to choose between their family’s safety and their federally subsidized affordable housing, if they already have it. The federal Homeless Emergency Assistance and Rapid Transition to Housing Act, enacted in 2009, was part of a broader housing bill designed in part to address the effects of the fiscal crisis. It amended and reauthorized the McKinney-­ Vento Homeless Assistance Act, consolidating the range of homeless assistance programs funded by HUD via grants to states and localities. Previously, McKinney-­Vento funds had been targeted primarily to homeless individuals; the amendments in HEARTH focused on the supportive housing needs of homeless families. HEARTH emphasized rapid rehousing, over emergency shelter placements, for homeless families. It gave communities with low rates of homelessness the opportunity to use more of their federal funds to house families with children and youth living on their own, and provided incentives to local collaborations that prioritize rapid rehousing of families. The Act also authorized funding for research to compare interventions for housing homeless families at three sites over two years. Of particular relevance to IPV survivors, it changed the definition of homelessness so that victims fleeing or attempting to flee domestic violence, dating violence, sexual assault, or stalking are now eligible for housing and services targeted to homeless households.4 This substantial change means that providers now can use federal funding that is earmarked to combat homelessness specifically to serve IPV survivors, who need not be literally homeless—­their status as fleeing or attempting to flee IPV makes them eligible. The inclusion of IPV survivors as a target population resulted from close to a decade of work by the domestic violence advocacy and service community. These legislative changes have meant that more funding for subsidized housing and to combat homelessness can be targeted to IPV survivors. Most national and state coalition advocates are not currently seeking a substantial federal funding stream dedicated to IPV-­specific housing. This decision is based on the political climate in which several years of federal budget sequestration, which established automatic budget cuts, have had a devastating impact on funding for subsidized housing. In addition, it acknowledges that many IPV survivors do not identify as such either

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because of privacy and safety concerns or because they perceive their economic needs to be more important and unrelated to current or past abuse. Instead, providers and advocates are focused on educating service providers about the needs of IPV survivors, in the hopes that they will be able to deliver more trauma-­informed care that will result in successful housing and other stability outcomes.5 Some local domestic violence organizations responded similarly and began to advocate around housing issues for their clients, in order to make general affordable housing resources more appropriate for IPV survivors. Others, however, embarked directly on developing housing despite the political climate at the federal level. Figure 5.1 outlines the two approaches and service model variations. The variations reflect the different needs of survivors. Some IPV survivors need targeted and intensive social and emotional support for a relatively short period, and then are able to live independently with the financial support of a subsidy. Some are eventually able to support themselves without a housing subsidy, but that process varies significantly depending on local housing costs, work history and skills, and family size. In our search for programs, we spoke with leaders at the national level and contacted state coalitions across the country. We searched the academic and policy literature and reviewed websites. Finally, we called and visited programs. As shown in figure 5.1, we discovered two different, but complementary, approaches to housing. Some agencies are adapting and expanding housing models that were originally designed for other populations. Others are focusing on innovations in place, accessing and modifying existing programs that are serving the general population, but that might need some refinement to better match the circumstances of IPV survivors. In our discussion of the approaches, we profile certain programs that illustrate the varied service models.6

Adapting and Expanding Housing Models Agencies that tackled the issue of long-­ term housing by adapting and expanding housing models have not created uniform programs. As local programs developed, mostly in isolation from each other, to meet the permanent housing needs of IPV survivors, advocates drew from two strategies that had been successful in housing homeless households. The strategies



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Adapting and Expanding Housing Models

Scattered–housing-irst site service model Housing–scattered-site irst philosophy Housing as part of a continuum Project-based service model On-site services model “Services-light” model

Innovations in Place: Accessing and Modifying Existing Programs

Public housing: Working with housing authorities

Private rental apartments: Educating landlords

FIGURE 5.1. Housing approaches and service models

are not exclusive, and housing providers have used them complementarily. The first is the housing first or rapid rehousing approach, which assumes that homeless individuals can best address their health and social service needs, and decrease their reliance on government services, when they are in safe and affordable housing as opposed to temporary shelter or living on the street. Research and practice shows the effectiveness of a rapid rehousing approach for homeless families without significant other barriers to stability (National Alliance to End Homelessness 2006a, 2006b, 2012). When those households are stably housed, in many cases they are able to resolve other issues on their own with minimal intervention. When the population being served is IPV survivors, the services provided as a family enters the program must address trauma and other needs resulting from domestic violence, for both parents and children. The second strategy is a housing model: permanent supportive housing, which was originally developed to serve single adults who struggle with multiple barriers to stability, most commonly mental illness and substance use, and are homeless or at risk of homelessness. Permanent supportive housing links affordable rental housing to case management, job training, and other supportive services based on residents’ needs. Often households enter PSH as part of a housing first or rapid rehousing approach, but sometimes they move to PSH from transitional housing. Many of the programs that we describe in

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this chapter draw on these strategies. They include both “scattered” and “project-­based” models, the appropriateness of which varies in accordance with survivors’ needs, the local housing market, and the availability of other services.

Service Model—­Scattered Site Scattered-­site housing models place households throughout a community, subsidize their housing, and provide housing services to participants in their homes or in centralized locations. Scattered-­site permanent housing programs targeted to IPV survivors are among the most established programs. This model is especially appropriate in rural communities, where multifamily housing is limited or nonexistent, and safety and stigma issues would make project-­based housing unworkable. IPV advocates and housing providers have collaborated to provide scattered-­site housing and tailor models to a community’s housing market, while still assuring that survivors are safe and that they receive the services they need. In some communities, where there is limited rental housing, advocates have formed relationships with private owners and convinced them to offer basements or garage apartments to IPV survivors on a short-­term basis.7 SCATTERED-­S ITE BASED IN A HOUSING-­F IRST APPROACH . One long-­running

example of a scattered-­site model is Volunteers of America’s Home Free program, based in Portland, Oregon. In 1998, Multnomah County, of which Portland is the county seat, received a HUD grant to provide rental assistance to IPV survivors in scattered-­site housing. Volunteers of America was one of four providers funded through this small-­scale pilot. The pilot program was so effective that it convinced Volunteers of America in 2003 to take the radical step of closing its emergency shelter, which it had operated for seventy-­seven years (serving families and individuals beginning long before the domestic violence movement), and replace it with this housing-­first, community-­based model to address the housing and service needs of IPV survivors. Volunteers of America developed the program in response to the needs of its clients, many of whom were either unable to locate and maintain long-­term housing after their shelter stays or unable to leave abusive situations because all of the local emergency shelter beds were full (Billhardt 2006). In addition, shifting the program’s focus from



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an emergency shelter to permanent housing resulted in such substantial cost savings that the agency was able to serve more than three times as many survivors each year. The cost of serving a family of four in an emergency shelter for two nights was close to the cost of a month’s rent for the same family (National Alliance to End Homelessness 2010). Home Free moves survivors from their compromised living situations directly into alternative housing arrangements either using motel vouchers or placing households directly into permanent private market and public housing. The program seeks to serve families that face multiple system barriers and struggle with complex needs that are difficult to resolve. Many of the families served by Home Free, for example, are involved with the child welfare system, have histories of substance use, and have mental health needs. Many are unable to access housing and employment on their own as a result of these barriers. All need stable housing and financial support. The program emphasizes cultural competence and outreach to underserved populations. It embraces the housing-­first philosophy in order to stabilize these families before making efforts to address other needs that may or may not be related to their inadequate housing. Once families are housed, the program provides an array of individualized mobile services to support participants’ stabilization. Services are provided to survivors and their children, separately and as a family unit, through a team of specialized providers. Home Free does not have any housing of its own; it relies on relationships with local landlords, management companies, and the public housing authority, all of whom appreciate that the services can benefit landlords as well as survivors. Participants receive supportive services for up to two years and generally receive financial subsidies for six months to a year. Initially the program was funded through federal HUD Supportive Housing funds. It now uses public and private funds, so it does not have to be bound by a particular funder’s eligibility requirements in terms of definitions of homelessness or family composition, for example. A CDC-­ sponsored quasi-­ experimental eighteen-­ month longitudinal evaluation of Home Free found that the program resulted in significant effects on housing stability and subsequently on health and mental health outcomes. Researchers developed a housing instability index, and found that risk factors for housing instability were related to higher levels of post-­traumatic stress disorder, depression, work and school absences, and

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hospital and emergency room visits. As survivors and their children experienced housing stability via the housing and services in the Home Free program, these outcomes all improved. Children experienced changes in emotional symptoms and in peer and conduct problems (Centers for Disease Control 2010; Niolon et al. 2009; Rollins et al. 2012). Another scattered-­site program, the Domestic Violence Housing First program in Washington state, provides flexible housing and services that are meant to enable survivors to bypass emergency shelters if possible. This program, a partnership between the Washington State Coalition Against Domestic Violence and the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, reflects a housing-­first approach adapted to meet the needs of IPV survivors. It began in 2009 and is operated by thirteen service providers across the state, and coordinated by the Washington State Coalition Against Domestic Violence, which also provides technical support. Program advocates provide individually tailored services in whatever location works best for survivors. Service needs are driven by survivors’ own assessments of what they need. The program offers “practical, temporary” funding directly to households, individually tailored to a survivor’s needs. It provides support with a housing search and with evaluating the landscape of housing options for a particular household. Finally, it works with landlords and housing authorities to educate them about their legal responsibilities and about the benefits of the support services provided to program participants. A 2014 evaluation of the program found that 88 percent of the 438 participants were in stable housing, and that the level of services needed by participants had steadily declined during their participation in the program. On average, survivors received services for fifteen months and the average amount of financial assistance was $1,250 (Mbilinyi 2015). SCATTERED SITE WITHIN A HOUSING CONTINUUM .

A third program, New

Hope for Women in Rockland, Maine, operates a transitional scattered-­ site program that simultaneously gives participants a permanent housing subsidy that they can use to subsidize long-­term housing. The program, founded in the mid-­1990s, serves six households, in units throughout the community that are owned by local supportive housing providers and designated for IPV survivors. Eligible households—­which must meet certain “self-­ sufficiency” requirements, including being drug and alcohol free,



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able to pass a criminal background check, and “mentally prepared, determined, and motivated to become self-­sufficient”—­receive housing subsidies for two years to support them in privately owned housing units.8 The program serves households coming from homeless or domestic violence shelters, or from the community; because of the nature of the housing units, households must not be in immediate danger. Participants must agree to regularly use services provided for New Hope for Women. A lease addendum states that they must participate in services, so that the program has the leverage to evict nonparticipating households, although it has not done so to date. At the end of the two-­year program period, most households receive Section 8 vouchers that they can use to subsidize their rents in other housing units.9 The District Alliance for Safe Housing (DASH), based in Washington, DC, employs a similar transitional-­ to-­ permanent housing model in its Empowerment Project. DASH establishes relationships with private landlords, and provides participating households with a rental subsidy and supportive services for two years. Participants sign leases directly with the landlords, thus getting an opportunity to rebuild or establish credit that may be damaged or nonexistent as the result of an abusive relationship. It is a voluntary services model, in which DASH staff check in with survivors and help them to set goals. When the two years are over—­or earlier if the participant is able—­the participant takes over full responsibility for the apartment.

Service Models—­Project-­Based Project-­based service models are more common in urban areas, where multifamily housing is typical at all income levels, and where public and private grant and loan funds often are combined to finance affordable housing for general and specific populations. PROJECT-­B ASED WITH ON-­S ITE SERVICES .

Women Aware, in New Bruns-

wick, New Jersey, offers a permanent housing program, opened in 2013, but it is extremely small—­just three units. Women Aware rehabilitated an existing building and maintains the building; the local public housing authority collects residents’ rents. Women Aware differs from some other housing providers in that it directs its services at households that it deems

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to be particularly needy in terms of services and financial support, rather than those that are high-­functioning and thus likely to achieve outcomes desired by funders. All of the participants in this program were prior residents of the organization’s emergency shelter, and were identified by program leaders as their “highest risk” families, who needed intensive case management and would have trouble achieving stability without extra support. The program uses case managers from its emergency shelter to provide flexible supports to survivors as they become more stable. Because its staff also provides services at the shelter, the program can afford to provide a range of services despite its small size. Services include support groups, trauma art therapy, legal advocacy, batterer intervention, and immigration advocacy. The model developed by Women Aware is based heavily in on-­site, trauma-­informed services provided directly by Women Aware staff. The program’s services are funded in part with federal Shelter+ Care funding, which is targeted to homeless people with disabilities. Women Aware uses the trauma experienced by children in these households in order to meet the disability criteria for the funding. The organization attaches the disability to the children rather than the adults because providers did not want a mental health diagnosis to cause custody problems for a parent down the road. The Prudence Crandall Center in Connecticut developed and now operates Rose Hill, another project-­based permanent supportive housing program using funds designated for individuals for disabilities. In contrast to Women Aware, at Rose Hill the women are the ones identified as having disabilities. We discuss Rose Hill, one of our case studies, in more depth in the following two chapters. PROJECT-­B ASED WITH SERVICES-­L IGHT.

New Destiny Housing, described

in more detail in chapter 2, is located in New York City and oversees permanent housing in the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Manhattan. New Destiny’s housing for IPV survivors uses a services-­light model that relies primarily on linkage agreements with other service organizations, and very light staffing at the sites. All of its buildings are made up of a mix of low income or formerly homeless households, and households coming directly from New York City’s domestic violence shelter system. New Destiny mixes its residents in this way in part to avoid a concentration of very service-­needy



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households, and in part to ensure that its monthly rent roll is larger than it would be if a whole building consisted of IPV survivors, as renters in subsidized housing typically pay 30 percent of their incomes toward housing costs. Working-­poor households therefore are likely to pay more in rent than IPV survivors who are in the process of regaining stability.

Innovations in Place: Accessing and Modifying Existing Programs Existing affordable housing programs can be modified to meet the needs of IPV survivors, but these modifications need to consider both the short-­ and long-­term ramifications of IPV. This approach has some similarities to scattered-­site models that make use of units available in the private market. The key difference is that residents in scattered-­site housing models are identified as IPV survivors and are connected to a domestic violence agency. The goal of accessing and modifying existing programs recognizes that many more IPV survivors attempt to access housing without identifying as survivors. As one provider noted, many homeless service providers recognize that many of the people they serve have histories of IPV but they dismiss it as “background noise” and focus instead on treating substance use and mental health—­which may be related directly to the IPV.10 If housing providers receive training about their legal obligations to IPV survivors, as well as the particular needs of survivors, many survivors who are not in imminent danger can be housed in existing programs, including the housing that they were living in with the abuser, if appropriate. The approach of modifying existing programs is cost-­effective, since it does not require development of new, population-­specific housing; and it also does not require that IPV service providers expend resources learning how to become housing developers. DASH, whose scattered-­site Empowerment Project in Washington, DC, is described above, established its Housing Resource Center in 2007 with the goal of helping IPV survivors navigate the existing housing programs in the District, which are complicated and inconsistent. Despite local laws forbidding housing discrimination due to applicants’ experiences with IPV, DASH clients were facing discrimination due to their status as survivors: housing programs required that they be separated from their abusers for a certain period of time, or denied them access to housing because they

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were in counseling, for example.11 Even if survivors can afford housing on the private market, they are frequently—­and often illegally—­rejected for such housing because landlords are concerned that abusers could damage property or otherwise disrupt the peace (Equal Rights Center 2008). The Housing Resource Center seeks to break down these barriers for survivors who are able to rent housing on their own. DASH also trains staff at homeless housing organizations on how to work with IPV survivors, and has developed relationships with private landlords. This approach is also central to the state of Washington’s Domestic Violence Housing First program, which creates and nurtures relationships with landlords and housing authorities, educating them on their legal responsibilities and underscoring the value of residents supported by case management. The other organizations we describe also work on advocacy and legal issues, and are supported by national organizations such as the National Network to End Domestic Violence and the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, as well as state domestic violence coalitions that connect local providers. As local programs learn about best practices that have been effective in other communities, they can adapt them to meet their needs. NATIONAL LEGISLATION, AVAILABLE

funding, and best practices in

the larger field of housing and homelessness influence which housing approaches local organizations choose to serve IPV survivors. Decisions on the type of service model are also shaped by the organization itself and the needs of the potential residents. In the next chapter, we focus on the adaptation of permanent supportive housing, which was originally designed to meet the needs of chronically homeless single people with severe mental illness, to meet the needs of IPV survivors and their families. In order to understand the complexity of this approach, we use a case study of the development of a housing program for IPV survivors in Connecticut.

6 Developing Program Theory and Goals Long-­Term Housing with Services

Many survivors of intimate partner violence continue to live with their abusers because they feel trapped by their limited long-­term options. Victoria stayed with her boyfriend long after she knew that his physical, psychological, and economic abuse was harming her and her son. Like many other survivors, she could not afford an apartment on her own. When she finally determined that going to an emergency domestic violence shelter was her only way to escape the abuse, she entered a new limbo in which she could not move out of the emergency shelter for more than a year, due to the lack of safe, affordable, and appropriate housing, and yet the “emergency” was considered time-­limited by the shelter provider. In this chapter, we discuss in more depth how providers have adapted permanent supportive housing, a housing model designed initially to meet the needs of homeless individuals, to serve IPV survivors. It is not clear that a model designed for a very different target population can be effectively adapted to serve IPV survivors. A number of programs have pursued this approach, however, including Women Aware in New Jersey and the Prudence Crandall Center in Connecticut. We present a case study of the development of one of the earliest project-­ based supportive housing programs designed for IPV survivors, Rose Hill, a program run by the Prudence Crandall Center. This case study is instructive for two reasons. First, it illustrates how the domestic violence advocacy community began to think about these issues. Second, it guides our assessment of the appropriateness of this model. In the next 93

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chapter, we consider the question of appropriateness from the perspective of survivors.

A Promising Strategy: Permanent Supportive Housing In the 1980s, advocates and providers working on housing and homelessness issues developed the permanent supportive housing model. Many PSH residents previously were chronically homeless, which exacerbates physical and mental health conditions, and means that they use hospital emergency rooms, inpatient hospital stays, detox facilities, and prisons and jails repeatedly and often in place of stable housing (Poulin et al. 2010). The PSH model as originally developed was rooted in the philosophy of housing first, also known as rapid rehousing. Housing is in scattered-­site or project-­based (congregate) models, and services are available on-­site or through linkage agreements with appropriate service providers (Corporation for Supportive Housing 2007). Early studies validated supportive housing’s success in terms of stabilizing residents and reducing their use of expensive public services. Studies demonstrated that the expense of supportive housing was justified by reductions in public service costs, including shelters, emergency room and inpatient hospital services, and criminal justice services (Culhane, Metraux, and Hadley 2002; Martinez and Burt 2006). By the 2000s, policymakers had responded to these findings and U.S. housing policy encouraged supportive housing as a strategy for ending chronic homelessness among populations with severe disabilities. The Corporation for Supportive Housing (CSH) is a national organization whose mission is “to advance solutions that use housing as a platform for services to improve the lives of the most vulnerable people, maximize public resources and build healthy communities.” Based on more than twenty years of experience supporting providers and advocating for funding, CSH has developed program models that can be adapted by location and population. The model of supportive housing program design that CSH advocates is a broadly recognized variation. It emphasizes four key principles: affordability; safety and comfort; flexible and accessible support services that target residential stability; and empowerment and independence (Corporation for Supportive Housing 2003). To ensure the first



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principle, affordability, programs use Section 8 Housing Choice Vouchers or other subsidies to enable residents to pay 30 percent or less of their incomes toward housing costs. Programs ensure the second principle, safety and comfort, by providing residents with permanent, high-­quality independent housing units. Flexible and accessible support services, the third principle, are available either on-­site or are easily accessible within the community. Residents can access the services as frequently or infrequently as they want or need, and housing cannot be conditioned on a resident’s receipt of services. The fourth principle, empowerment and independence, is achieved by giving residents private, attractive living space, trusting them to seek services when and how they want them, offering residents input into program management, and supporting those who want to move on to other independent housing.

Adapting Permanent Supportive Housing Models to Serve IPV Survivors As housing providers saw the effectiveness of the supportive housing model, they adapted it to address the needs of other populations, such as youth aging out of foster care, persons living with HIV/AIDS, veterans, and persons being discharged from prisons and jails. Adaptation of the model to families with children is more recent, but research suggests that rapid rehousing of families leads to positive results that are similar to those for single adults (National Alliance to End Homelessness 2012). A pilot program in New York City in 2007–­2009 provided twenty-­nine units of supportive housing to families who were at risk of having a child removed into foster care, and resulted in significant declines in child welfare involvement, improvements in school attendance, and elimination of substance use, among other outcomes (Metis Associates 2010). Because low-­income families tend not to be as extreme consumers of public services as chronically homeless individuals, however, it is harder to make a case for supportive housing for families on purely economic grounds. In the early 2000s, a handful of domestic violence agencies began experimenting with the model. As these permanent housing programs have emerged, providers have been forced to articulate their goals for survivors “beyond the crisis,” which can challenge their status quo. Housing

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programs for IPV survivors tend to embrace CSH’s four principles for affordability; safety and comfort; flexpermanent supportive housing—­ ible and accessible support services that target residential stability; and empowerment and independence—­and incorporate additional goals arising from the needs of the population served: the most immediate one is safety and security. Other goals that are specific to this population include support for children of IPV survivors, legal support, and addressing mental health needs that are specific to domestic violence. Many providers, including the one we profile in this chapter, describe these programs as “trauma-­informed.”

Case Study: Rose Hill The Prudence Crandall Center, based in central Connecticut, opened the Rose Hill Supportive Housing Program in 2009. The program provides ten units of permanent supportive housing, open to women with children who have histories of IPV and a documented disability, which includes mental health conditions commonly associated with experiences of violence. These housing units, the first permanent housing for IPV survivors in Connecticut, are co-­located on the Rose Hill Campus with other Prudence Crandall Center programs, including eight units of transitional housing, counseling and support group facilities, and its administrative offices. The Prudence Crandall Center’s history reflects the classic trajectory of domestic violence services in the United States, from a community-­ based model of grassroots feminist empowerment to a professionalized multiservice agency with diverse funding streams. The Prudence Crandall Center provides services, advocacy, and emergency shelter to IPV survivors at several locations in central Connecticut. The Center was founded in 1973 as the Prudence Crandall Center for Women, without a particular focus on domestic violence issues. A community needs survey revealed a need for emergency domestic violence shelter, and in 1975 the Center rented an apartment in New Britain to serve as a temporary shelter for battered women and their children. This apartment was the first domestic violence shelter in Connecticut. The Center expanded its scope and services to focus on the needs of IPV survivors and their children, changing its name in 2003 to reflect the broader group of clients it serves.



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The Center now offers a twenty-­ four-­ hour crisis hotline, support groups, prevention education and outreach, services targeted to children, and assistance with civil and criminal court processes. Nonresidential and emergency shelter services, where IPV survivors can stay for up to two months, are available within New Britain and in eight surrounding towns. The Rose Hill Campus has both a transitional housing program and the ten units for permanent supportive housing. The agency receives federal, state, and local funding; foundation grants; and small private donations. Prior to developing the Rose Hill Campus, the Prudence Crandall Center had not provided transitional or permanent housing, but its staff, leadership, and board recognized the need for such housing. The two-­month emergency shelter stay provided “time to exhale,” in the words of program administrators, but not enough time for IPV survivors to locate new housing, particularly given the increasing shortage of affordable housing units, coupled with many women’s lack of income. Women frequently left shelters for other precarious living arrangements, such as homeless shelters, or doubled up with other households, and administrators and staff were concerned that they would return to their abusers. As one board member noted, survivors “have no place to go but to go back to the abuser and this cycle keeps repeating itself.” In 2007, the Center’s long-­range plan included investigating models and funding for transitional housing. Its leaders accelerated this plan when a potential site and funding became available. A board member brought the Rose Hill site to the Center’s attention. The member had considered the site for another organization on whose board he sits and decided that the building was too large. When he joined the Prudence Crandall Center board he “already had this on the back burner,” and at a long range-­planning meeting he recalled: “They started talking about the long-­range plan and this and that. I said, ‘I know a spot.’ ‘You do?’ And I told them about it and we went to look at it and this kind of went from eight years to immediate and they started on it right away. It was a good opportunity so I’m glad they did because you don’t find an opportunity like this all the time.” The Rose Hill Campus is in a secluded area of a small city, on property leased at a below-­market rate from the Daughters of the Immaculate Conception, a local order of Roman Catholic nuns. The four-­story building,

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a former orphanage run by the nuns, is at the end of a long driveway; a city bus route stops at the bottom of the driveway, and school buses drive up it. The thirty-­year lease includes five acres of land, which staff and board members envisioned as a “marvelous setting . . . like their own playground.” An administrator described the site as “an oasis in the middle of the city” and “isolated, but calming and quiet.” When the Center’s leaders learned of the site, they also learned of a Notice of Funding Availability for supportive housing issued by the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development. Local authorities encouraged them to apply, since no such program existed in Connecticut. The application was successful, and thus the largest portion of funding came from HUD’s Supportive Housing Program, which promotes the development of supportive housing and services and is intended to help formerly homeless persons achieve residential stability, increase their skills and incomes, and realize greater self-­determination. Because the Supportive Housing Program funds programs that serve chronically homeless individuals who have “a disabling condition,” residents of Rose Hill permanent housing units must have a disability. The definition of disability, however,

FIGURE 6.1. Rose Hill Photograph courtesy of Prudence Crandall Center, Inc.



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includes such mental health conditions as anxiety disorders and post-­ traumatic stress disorder, and administrators did not feel that this definition limited the number of potential residents. In total, the rehabilitation of the building, which took place between 2007 and 2008, cost approximately $8 million, funded by city, state, federal, and private dollars. The broader community supported the project. The Prudence Crandall Center held an open house in 2004, at which it received overwhelming support from neighbors of the site. When the Center needed to apply for a zoning variance for the site, there was no community opposition. The city council also granted a deferral of building permit fees and building plan review fees for four years, with payment to be made in partial annual installments thereafter. Many interviewees acknowledged that this support stems from the perception of IPV survivors as the “good” and “blameless” homeless. It also may reflect the site’s isolation, which means that there are no immediate neighbors—­ as one interviewee noted, it is “not in anyone’s face”; another explained, “it’s not like it’s in a neighborhood.”

Program Goals and Services We spoke with staff and board members of the Prudence Crandall Center in the spring of 2007 to understand their vision for this developing program, including its goals and services (Botein and Hetling 2010; Hetling and Botein 2010). In 2015, several years after we had completed and published some of the research included in this chapter, and six years after the first families moved into the permanent and transitional housing at Rose Hill, we returned to tour the facility and meet with program administrators, many of whom were different from those in place eight years earlier. Thus, we were able to get a unique perspective on the program’s development over time, and on how the organization has adapted to this different approach to IPV. The Prudence Crandall Center describes its philosophy as “women-­ led advocacy”: it starts with the assumption that women are their own best advocates, and seeks to provide them with the necessary resources to take action. Program administrators felt that the Rose Hill program must reflect this philosophy. Accordingly, when we spoke with them in 2007, they articulated the overall goal of the program as providing women

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with the services and support that they need to live independently. Although the program design borrows many elements from traditional supportive housing programs, administrators felt strongly that they could not simply apply program models that have worked for homeless people with special needs. The stated goals of the Rose Hill project are fourfold: provide independent and permanent housing; supply safe and affordable housing; keep women connected to optional services; and offer women the support necessary for them to move on. In 2015, program administrators also emphasized their model of trauma-­informed care and services. The increased importance of trauma to their approach seems to reflect both a shift in the field overall, in terms of research and practice, and the informed response of staff based on their experience serving residents over several years.

Provide Independent, Permanent Housing The program provides independent living for families, with separate apartments and traditional leases. As the executive director described the program in 2007, “They’ll have a tenant lease and they’ll need to abide by their lease like any renter would in the entire city—­which would be no pets and whatever, don’t hang anything out your windows, and don’t paint, that kind of stuff.” Rose Hill thus operates as a housing complex with minimal rules and regulations, in contrast to emergency or transitional housing for IPV survivors. In 2007, program administrators identified this independence and lack of rules and requirements as key elements of the program. They also predicted that direct service staff would find these guidelines challenging: they might not understand, for example, that women in permanent housing units could have male visitors and even overnight guests. Indeed, when we returned in 2015, we learned that staff struggled without certain rules. The Prudence Crandall Center provides both supportive services and property management at Rose Hill, rather than outsourcing the property management, as is the case in many traditional supportive housing programs. Prudence Crandall’s administrators believed that they “need the control” over tenant selection to ensure residents’ safety, but they were also clear that staff providing support services are not the ones responsible for enforcing the terms of the lease. At our follow-­up visit in 2015,



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we learned that Prudence Crandall was continuing to handle the property management in-­house, but that the organization had created a new director of facilities position, in part at HUD’s request.

Supply Safe and Affordable Housing The Prudence Crandall Center developed the Rose Hill Permanent Housing Program to meet its clients’ growing need for safe and affordable housing. Both staff and board members described housing affordability and availability as perhaps the most critical pressures leading to the development of Rose Hill. A vital goal of the program, therefore, is to overcome some of the problems faced by survivors searching for housing in the private market or waiting for subsidized housing to become available. The goal of affordability is accomplished by calculating each household’s rent as a percentage of its income. As we have noted, in some ways IPV survivors are no different from other homeless and low-­income families as they struggle to find affordable housing amid a limited supply. Because they are abuse survivors, however, program administrators reported their particular concerns that women would end up returning to their abusers if they could not locate permanent housing. Administrators were also sensitive about creating a sense of security for the residents. Because the units are co-­ located in a building with transitional housing units and administrative offices, key cards limit access. Some cards work only in some areas, or for staff, only at certain times. Housing residents are not allowed on the transitional floor. For the first few years that the program was open, it did not have round-­the-­clock staffing, but now has facility monitors in the building twenty-­four hours a day, in response to needs expressed by residents and staff.

Keep Women Connected to Optional Services As noted above, the Rose Hill program is based on “women-­defined” or “women-­led” advocacy, which shapes all Prudence Crandall programs. Services offered include counseling, case management, transportation, budgeting, referrals, advocacy, crisis intervention, trauma groups, and drop-­off children’s services, including art therapy. Mental health services are provided via linkages to other organizations. All staff must be

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certified domestic violence counselors, which requires a twenty-­hour training that includes information on confidential data. Administrators feel that they have been able to leverage services by providing them across programs. Services are voluntary, even though that flexibility may hinder program outcomes. As one administrator pointed out: “We believe that it is the woman’s right to choose what she wants for services and what she doesn’t. That certainly does cause a problem to keeping them connected to services because we don’t call and remind them. But that’s not because we think we should. We don’t believe we should but at the same time that’s a problem when you can’t call and go, ‘Hey, you want to come?’”

Offer Support Necessary to Move On Services are designed to help women develop skills and knowledge to make other choices and eventually move on to different housing, although the Rose Hill housing is permanent and women are able to stay in it for as long as they want. Upon entering the Rose Hill program, adult residents are assigned a family advocate and children are assigned a child advocate; these staff members work with residents to develop goal plans. Residents can access the available services if they choose, but administrators believed that it is just as important that they know that help is available if and when they need it. “Most people have supports,” the Prudence Crandall executive director pointed out in 2007. “You know none of us exists without any supports. . . . Just having that support [counselors and services], even if they don’t seek that support and encouragement from the staff of the agency, knowing that they’re living in a community of other women who understand where they are coming from and who have gone through similar things. We hope to really foster that sense of community.” Administrators hoped that a supportive community would empower women to pursue their own personal and financial goals and develop confidence. Moreover, just as in the private housing market, if and when a better apartment in a better location comes along, a resident may decide to seize that opportunity and move. In this way, the timeline, and the interpretation of permanent housing, belongs to the resident, not the agency. We learned in 2015 that survivors leaving the Rose Hill permanent housing thus far have moved on to public housing, private housing subsidized with



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Section 8 vouchers, and subsidized scattered-­site housing programs operated by Prudence Crandall and other providers.

Does the Rose Hill Model Work? Prudence Crandall administrators sought to design a model that would achieve four goals: provide independent, permanent housing; supply safe and affordable housing; keep women connected to services; and offer support necessary to move on and grow. These goals may conflict at times. The goal of creating a safe and supportive program at Rose Hill, which requires administrators to regulate and supervise many aspects of the housing, may conflict with the equally important goal of providing independent housing for women and their children. The issue of safety, in particular, poses challenges, as rules to ensure individual and community safety may be at odds with the goal of allowing residents to make independent choices. Although safety is important in all housing, it is particularly critical in housing serving IPV survivors. Casework, advocacy, and support programs also could be considered contrary to providing an immediate opportunity for families to live independently, even as these services are designed to promote independence eventually. Despite these potential challenges and contradictions, our overall finding, particularly after revisiting the program in 2015, is that Rose Hill has effectively adapted the PSH model to meet the needs of IPV survivors. Its focus on trauma-­informed care and the flexibility of its services are key to its success in engaging and retaining this population. THUS FAR, OUR

discussions of program design and funding, in this

chapter and the previous one, have primarily measured goals and success through the perspectives of government and nonprofit stakeholders. As institutions, they fund, develop, and operate the programs that serve IPV survivors. Their perspectives tend to emphasize costs—­both the expense of housing and services and the potential cost savings realized when survivors receive stable permanent housing and are able to leave emergency shelters. They also stress outcomes, most recently with a focus on “self-­sufficiency”—­which is another approach to the cost issue, as households that are self-­sufficient presumably have reduced

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or eliminated their reliance on government subsidies. Local agencies, motivated partly by funders’ concerns, have adopted a focus on evaluations, many of which try to take into consideration the experiences of survivors and utilize IPV-­specific resources to guide implementation. It is critical, particularly in a feminist approach to program development, to consider the voices of the survivors who use the programs, and we turn to their perspectives as consumers and stakeholders in housing and services in the next chapter.

7 Survivor Perspectives on Program Theory and Models

Victoria, like many of her neighbors in The Anderson, felt that living in a building with on-­site staff and services had direct and important impacts on various aspects of her life. We shared the stories of residents at The Anderson in chapter 2. Victoria’s overwhelmingly positive sentiment, however, does not mean that she has no suggestions for improvement or changes. Many of the residents do. The experiences of IPV survivors living at The Anderson illuminate lessons and challenges not just for the staff of The Anderson but for service providers in general. In this chapter, we revisit both of our case studies. We present survivor perspectives on long-­term housing from two different programs during two different points in program development. First, focus group participants from Connecticut offered their opinions on long-­term housing with services before it actually existed. We conducted these focus groups during the development of Rose Hill, discussed in chapter 6. These findings are informative because they interrogate the underlying goals of this housing. Researchers examining transitional domestic violence housing, as well as other types of service provision, have found contradictions between client and staff perspectives (Anderson, Stuttaford, and Vostanis 2006; Duxbury 2002; Melbin, Sullivan, and Cain 2003). Second, we present our findings from our in-­depth interviews with residents at The Anderson, who had been living in their housing for about two years at the time of our last interviews. These findings present the opinions of women who were grappling about what their housing meant to them on a day-­to-­day basis and 105

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for the future, as they began to establish longer term goals for themselves and their families.

Thinking about the Possibility: Rose Hill The development of new programs demands energy, discussion, and sometimes the reconciliation of competing views and priorities. The decision of some domestic violence agencies to develop and provide long-­ term housing is not a simple one; adapting a model to fit the needs of IPV survivors is challenging, as we saw in the last chapter. The Rose Hill Campus, developed and operated by the Prudence Crandall Center, a nonprofit organization in central Connecticut, has ten units of permanent supportive housing for IPV survivors who have a documented disability, which includes mental health conditions such as anxiety or depression. The stated goals of the Rose Hill project are fourfold: provide independent and permanent housing; supply safe and affordable housing; keep women connected to optional services; and offer women the support necessary for them to move on. To complement the administrative perspective on the potential of Rose Hill, in 2007, before it opened, we spoke with groups of IPV survivors who would be eligible for the new program. We conducted six focus groups ranging in size from three to seven women. At the time of the focus groups, most of the women were living in emergency and transitional housing. Accordingly, many had only recently left abusive situations and likely had not had time or space to think about long-­term goals or housing. Thus, for some, our questions probably had little concrete meaning. Potential residents echoed the four main program goals articulated by Prudence Crandall administrators, but their priorities were different. The women supported the concept of permanent supportive housing for IPV survivors. Many said they would be interested in moving in to Rose Hill. Women were acutely aware of the lack of affordable housing in the community, and feared that this shortage placed them at risk of returning to their abusers. One worried that if she did not secure housing, “I’m going to be scared to go out there, and unfortunately I hope this don’t be me, and I don’t think it will, but most people are returning back to an abusive relationship.” Some were not interested in living at Rose Hill, and their



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reasons varied. Some of the nonresidential clients, who were only receiving services, already had stable living arrangements, as either homeowners or renters. As one woman explained, “I have always owned my own home and I’m used to the freedom.” Others felt that they would not be eligible or that the program would not meet their needs, because they did not have children, were wary about potential rules and requirements, or wanted to live in a two-­or three-­family house rather than a larger development. One woman was particularly concerned with the noise and atmosphere: “I have no kids. I have no desire to live in a house with, you know, a woman that is depressed and her kids are just going wild and just running back and forth, and I’m listening to this every day.”

Perceived Advantages and Disadvantages Overall, potential residents identified many more advantages than disadvantages of the design of the Rose Hill program. Women tended to focus on positive and negative aspects of three elements of the program: living with other IPV survivors; the environment for children; and the logistics of the building. When asked how they felt about living only with other families who had experienced domestic violence, the vast majority of women felt that the setting naturally would become a supportive community. Women living in emergency or transitional housing saw themselves as part of a broader domestic violence community, and were energized by the idea that the “whole house could be just emotionally women supporting each other.” Strong dissenting voices expressed concerns that the environment would be depressing or “gossipy,” and therefore preferred to live on their own. Most potential residents thought the housing would be a positive influence on their children. They stressed safety and the support of other children and had no particular concern about developmental or social issues for children. A woman suggested that their children “need the same support that we need.” Women also identified some housing logistics, which they considered strong advantages. First, personal safety, which is critical for IPV survivors, was highlighted as a strong advantage, and women suggested security cameras and other safety features. As one woman noted, “the basics are food and shelter, really, and safety.” Another frequently discussed advantage was affordability. Lastly, for potential residents who

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were living in emergency shelters when we talked to them about Rose Hill, increased space and privacy were very appealing.

Important Goals and Supportive Services Potential Rose Hill residents stressed safety, security, and community as important goals of this housing model. They mentioned personal and neighborhood safety frequently; they saw the presence of drugs in many lower-­income neighborhoods as particularly negative. As discussed earlier, many women were enthusiastic about the potential for communal support. Affordability also was an important goal. Women talked about the high cost of rent and utilities, and the difficulty that credit checks posed for some of them, because “your abuser will be the person that makes your credit go so bad to begin with.” Women wanted supportive services that might be considered logistical supports rather than social services. They suggested that transportation was critical, given the lack of good public transportation. They discussed the need for childcare, including twenty-­four-­hour service for those who work at second-­and third-­shift jobs. They mentioned medical, legal, and translation services. Women wanted on-­site laundry, available computers with Internet capabilities, and a community bulletin board, as well as a convenience store within walking distance. Potential residents also were interested in social services, but they mentioned most those that were practically oriented and focused on developing financial and economic resources: financial counseling, support groups, job training, and job placement and employment search services. Women also discussed the need for counseling and substance use treatment, although to a lesser degree, perhaps because there was a sense that the support of other residents might meet that need. Several women suggested that they would be better at counseling each other than staff: “I don’t think that those regular counselors even went through half of the things I’ve gone through. . . . I think it’s more like they got book training.” There was no consensus about whether women living in the housing should be required to receive supportive services. Some felt services should be mandated so that residents made progress; others were turned off by anything sounding like a “program,” although most thought women should take advantage of services available. In most groups, participants



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reached a general consensus; as one women explained, “If you are not trying to better yourself, you should not be getting the housing to begin with. You should have to be in other services to better yourself.”

Length of Stay By definition, permanent supportive housing cannot be time-­ limited, but most women we talked to perceived the housing as a “program” from which residents should move on at some point. In response to questions about whether there should be time limits for households in this housing, women expressed a near consensus that the length of time needed to reach stability will vary, and therefore that there should not be a hard and fast time limit. There was simultaneous near unanimity, nonetheless, that women should plan on moving out of the program at some point, in order to “move forward.” The program should “help people to get on their feet,” potential residents determined, which “doesn’t mean come here and stay forever. It means come here, get on your feet, and go.” In addition, women were concerned about the limited number of units that would be available in relation to the need, and felt strongly that once residents were stable, they should move in order to make their units available to others, and “utilize the tools so other people can work the same system.” If there was not such a severe housing shortage, most women agreed that they would not be as emphatic about the need to transition out of this housing program.

Rules We asked what kinds of rules and requirements would help residents get along, and would help them to achieve their goals. Rules about male visitors, including former abusers, dates, and family members, were the subject of lively discussions, and there was no consensus about an appropriate solution. Some women were concerned that the presence of men would be traumatizing for those who were recovering from abuse, and that it would encourage residents to repeat the cycle of abuse. One woman explained, “I really feel like you should have your relationships on the outside because there are people that are healing on the inside, and a lot has to do with men.” Others felt that if the housing was to be independent and permanent, it was important for residents to have the ability to date, if they wanted to, as part of moving on with their lives, because “it’s not a convent.”

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Beyond the discussions of men, rules that women proposed were those that typically exist in many housing developments, including restricting pets, no smoking in public areas, no drugs, and no noise after a certain time at night. In addition, they mentioned rules that would govern resident interactions, such as having respect for each other and offering support.

Involvement in Program Design Women were unanimous that they would like to be involved in developing the program. Even those who were not interested in living in Rose Hill agreed with the importance of survivor involvement. As one woman explained, “Nobody can tell it like the person who’s gone through it. It’s like a war, you know. People come home from a war and tell their story. There’s no point asking someone who hasn’t been there, done that, and got the T-­shirt. I’m still wearing it.” As noted above, peer support and experience frequently were compared favorably to that provided by program staff. Individuals who thought that they would not be able to personally participate in program development felt strongly that other IPV survivors should be involved. Additionally, women felt that it was important for Rose Hill residents to have a voice in program management. They suggested community meetings, resident councils, and message bulletin boards to foster communication between staff and residents and to ensure a venue for residents to voice concerns and suggestions. Interestingly, when we returned to the site in 2015, program administrators told us that they had recently begun holding resident meetings quarterly; they initially tried having them more often but residents did not attend, and they tried to start a resident council but it was not successful.

Do Survivors’ Priorities Match Administrators’ Goals? As we considered where administrators and survivors agreed and disagreed about program goals, we examined three topics that were particularly important to prospective residents: services, length of stay, and rules about visitors. At Rose Hill, survivor views on these three topics were always consistent with the administrative goal of supplying safe and affordable housing. They wanted flexible and mandatory supportive services, variable but ultimately limited tenure, and regulated visitation, all of which support a program that provides safe and affordable housing. This



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agreement underscores the overriding importance of safety and affordability for both administrators and survivors, and reverberates with both the initial purpose of the domestic violence movement, which was to provide safety for battered women, and with the purpose of these new permanent housing programs, which is to address the housing affordability crisis. Views of perspective residents on services also were consistent with the administrative goal of offering residents the support necessary to move on and grow, as the contemplated services would strengthen women’s capacities to support themselves financially and psychologically. Survivor views on these topics conflicted, however, with the administrative goal of providing independent and permanent housing, rather than a “program,” in large part due to the value of safety and its potential to be compromised if the housing is not overseen with appropriate security. Mandatory services, as desired by clients, could undermine the independent nature of housing, because housing that is truly independent is not associated with a required “program.” Limited tenure in housing, which most women supported to some extent, also conflicts with the goal of providing permanent housing, simply by definition. Regulation of who would be permitted to visit residents, which many potential residents desired, conflicts with the goal of independent housing because such rules are not applied to tenants living in housing with typical leases. Women also tended to think that supportive services should be required to some extent, conflicting with the program goal of offering services on an optional basis. One of the reasons behind the success of many permanent supportive housing programs is that the model offers permanency to populations that previously were considered difficult to house, and demonstrates that they can remain relatively stable. As the women we spoke with recognized, the length of time that it takes someone to “get off your butt, get in the world, and make a new you” will vary considerably. While all of the focus group participants were concerned about short and overly strict time limits, most women did not agree that residence should be permanent. A focus on permanence may hinder making housing available to others in the future, which was important to most potential residents. This case study considered survivor preferences at the time of program development, but we did not speak with Rose Hill residents when we returned to the program in 2015. In the next section of this chapter, we

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explore in depth the preferences and experiences of IPV survivors living in permanent housing.

Living the Reality: The Anderson Our interviews with residents of The Anderson allowed us to examine the experiences of women who were living in long-­term housing for IPV survivors, rather than contemplating a proposed program. The Anderson is a forty-­one-­unit building in the Bronx, New York, run by New Destiny Housing. Half of the units are set aside for formerly homeless IPV survivors. The Anderson, unlike Rose Hill, is a services-­light model, with one on-­site staff member and extensive linkages to off-­site services. While Rose Hill residents must have a documented disability to qualify because the building receives HUD supportive services funding, residents at The Anderson face no such requirement. We conducted in-­depth interviews with thirteen of the twenty IPV survivors residing in the building at multiple times over a close to two-­year period. Our conversations with the thirteen women over the course of the study provided complex insights into not only the varied challenges of a services-­light model but also more general model development. Resident suggestions, though based in their experiences with The Anderson, have relevance to our focus groups in Connecticut and to conversations about the varied program development and approaches described in chapter 5. Based on our interviews with residents of the Anderson, we identify three challenges for program leaders and administrators: determining on-­site versus off-­site services; balancing independence and case management; and balancing tenant support and building management.

Determining On-­Site versus Off-­Site Services As noted above, the services-­light model relies on an on-­site, full-­time tenant support coordinator. This person is responsible for a wide range of duties: linking residents to services that they need in order to become more self-­sufficient; serving as an intermediary with the agency and the management company; arranging outings and celebrations; and providing companionship and support. She primarily works regular business hours, although she stays late one night a week.



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Residents were overwhelmingly positive about the support they received from the tenant support coordinator. Residents were grateful for the support, understanding, and presence of the tenant support coordinator. One resident explained, “For me, they have done everything. I know a lot of other buildings; they don’t have what Rebecca’s been doing. It brings them in from the shelter and makes them feel like they are a part of something else. That it’s different. I know my kids feel more safer and relaxed. She gives us support and it’s on us now to try and build and do what we have to do.” Residents found the coordinator helpful and responsive. She was usually the first person they would go to in the event of a problem. Several had asked for her help with job-­seeking, and several used her computer regularly to work on their resumes or submit job applications. She also had helped several find and assess schools and training programs. She acted as a go-­between for residents who were behind on their rent, either because they did not pay their portion or because of a problem with the local public welfare agency, and tried to explain why residents were sued in Housing Court, and what their response should be. One focus group discussion described the coordinator in this way: MULTIPLE VOICES:  

Her door is always open. You can cry to her. Anything.

Yeah. Yeah. Everything is confidential. ONE PARTICIPANT : 

You learn from your mistakes. And, that [not going

to the coordinator for a problem] was the mistake I made. It won’t happen again. If I got a toenail hanging, I’m going to say, “Hey, I gotta toenail hanging” [laughter]. Even those residents who had not sought help for specific problems usually supported the overall positive opinions of Rebecca because they were grateful to have someone there “just in case” or because they knew of someone else who had benefited from her assistance. One resident noted, “It feels like so so good because I don’t have any real family that’s been there or had my back and just to know that there are some people that do care and they are looking out for you and they are going to make sure that they can do the best they can do to make sure you are protected.”

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In addition to providing individual support and help, the tenant support coordinator’s responsibilities include coordinating workshops, programs, and special events for residents. Residents who attended the workshops found them useful. Many told us that they had not attended because they had to work, or because they were too tired from working and caring for their children. All residents thought the workshops were a good idea, and many praised specific workshops that addressed legal or financial needs: “Money workshops are always helpful because dealing with money and . . . everybody is mostly on welfare so a welfare workshop where you talk about some stuff that goes on with welfare.” Several residents had participated in community-­building activities, including holiday parties, game and craft events for children, and a trip to a Yankees game. Several residents referenced these events as among their happiest times at The Anderson. “My best memory here is like last Thanksgiving when everybody brought down a dish from their family or whatever like their own culture so it was like a multicultural thing. We all ate together and you know it was like most of the people from the building participated and it was just fun. You know you saw the kids getting together, everybody eating, everybody enjoying, everybody talking, everybody socializing.” We did not hear any suggestions for changing the role of the tenant support coordinator. The only residents who were less effusive with their praise were those who were not around during daytime hours, so had little contact with her. These comments, however, did not include suggestions beyond different hours. Maria explained, “As a tenant, they offer so much help. I wish I could take more advantage, but I physically don’t have the time [because of work].” Similarly, residents had few concrete ideas about other workshops they would like to see offered. One suggested a workshop on public assistance: “if you’re not on, how to apply, how to make sure your rent is getting paid, how to maximize how you’re budgeted.” The services-­light model means that beyond the on-­site tenant support coordinator and periodic events, limited services are delivered at the site. For some residents, the referrals and linkages established by the tenant support coordinator seemed to work. Edith explained, “If she doesn’t know the answer, she always knows people.” Residents also liked the amount of posted information in terms of jobs and outside opportunities and events:



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“I read in passing what’s going on . . . and it helps. You know, I’m looking for a new job.” Mothers particularly appreciated the postings related to children’s events. “For me, I have kids, sometimes you don’t know what to do with them,” one mother noted. “You get tired of going to the local park. But they always have free events in Central Park.” Unlike postings, which are available for all to see, referrals are more dependent on the individuals involved. Residents must ask for help, which Maria explained: “Yeah, she did offer [to help find off-­site services], yeah but it was because I brought it up, so she’s like, ‘okay, let me just help you out real quick,’ out of her own kindness. But it is something that should just be done. I’m young, I’m a first-­time mom, first-­time apartment owner [renter], it’s like I don’t know these things, it’s hard.” Successful referrals are also dependent on the knowledge and network of the coordinator: “I wanted to talk to her about it too. So she said she was going to help me. So let’s see where it goes. I hope it turns out good.” Even in cases where referrals were successfully sought and given, it was unclear if residents would be able to follow through and be able to evaluate whether services or programs would be appropriate and of good quality. For example, a few residents who needed mental health services were not getting them because it was inconvenient. In the absence of broad on-­ site support and services, the development of referral networks is critical. In some ways, off-­site services may be preferable given the diverse needs and schedules of the residents. One of the challenges of referrals, however, lies in the ability to assess the quality of outside agencies before establishing linkages.

Balancing Independence and Case Management A long-­standing tenet of permanent supportive housing is that services must be flexible and voluntary, and The Anderson does not deviate from this model. In that sense, residents are treated as independent and responsible adults. When we reviewed the goals of the program model with residents, it was clear that they felt that they were in charge of their own destinies. “It’s like when you’re in shelter, people judge you, you know,” Maria explained. “And, it’s like, now I can say, well, no, I’m in my own place, I work my job, I’m taking care of my son and vaccinations. Everything is up to date with him.”

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In discussing goals and barriers with the residents, however, some residents did not know what questions to ask or what services are available outside of The Anderson. A regular review or check-­in may assist residents in knowing what supports might help them. Although a traditional case management approach does not fit in with the philosophy of supportive housing, such reviews could be structured informally with the check-­in responsibility lying with the coordinator, rather than mandating action on the part of the residents. Relying on residents to seek support may result in incomplete services or unmet needs.

Balancing Tenant Support and Building Management The tenant support coordinator walks a very difficult line, as she is expected to simultaneously support residents in their paths to stability and enforce rules and requirements, some of which make little sense to residents. Our analysis suggests that most residents did not understand her role, and many thought she had more training and more authority than she does. Residents perceived the tenant support coordinator as more than just the face of the program—­for many of them she was the program, which in their minds was not separate from the housing, and they often saw her in direct contrast to the faceless management company. Some residents feared the possibility of staff turnover, concerned that somehow a new coordinator might increase rents to market rates, for example. Closely related to this lack of understanding are issues related to communication and education. Residents frequently discussed communication issues and misunderstandings during our interviews. Some women seemed personally wounded by Housing Court actions brought against them when the public assistance portion of their rent was not paid, even when the tenant support coordinator explained that they would not be evicted. These situations often seemed analogous to their encounters with the public welfare agency, where they sometimes received insufficient information and were held responsible for bureaucratic errors. One resident described her struggles, saying, “You guys don’t give anyone a break. At least don’t send a letter. Call me. I have a cell phone that works. Like, call me and say, hey what’s going on? Is everything okay? What is it? Can we help? Whatever. Don’t send me a letter like, oh, go talk to this person. And then I talk to that person and then that person doesn’t talk to the next person.”



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More education and clearer communications on residents’ housing status, including eligibility (or ineligibility) to move to other buildings, might also empower residents to make better choices and likely increase the comfort of some residents in reaching out for help.

Program Implications Residents at The Anderson agree with the philosophy of a services-­light model, in which they have access to a staff person, limited on-­site supports, and the ability to access a larger network via the coordinator. Of course, they did not have the experience of a model with more intensive on-­site services. For The Anderson, the advantages of services-­light model include its ability to avoid a “program” feel, to foster empowerment and independence, and to allow for a wider offering of services via referrals. Our focus groups with potential residents in Connecticut contradict these findings to some degree. The themes of services, length of stay, and rules that arose from our discussions with the women there seem to support a more structured program. It is possible that the idea of permanent supportive housing was too new to the women we spoke with, and that over time the model might become more appealing. We spoke with a diverse group of women, most of whom had recently left their abusers and were residing in emergency shelters. It is possible that they have different housing needs and desires than those who are further from the abuse experiences. More important, given that these women were not living at Rose Hill and thus had not experienced the housing, we should more accurately interpret their insights as concerns rather than opinions based on direct experience with the model.

The Role of Services Survivors in both case studies emphasized their need for practically oriented services and workshops. Focus group participants suggested job search skills and financial counseling. Women at The Anderson specifically praised financial and legal workshops. Both groups of women discussed the importance of personal growth and moving on and recognized the role of services in supporting these goals. To differing degrees, women saw having housing with services as important. Some women in our Connecticut

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focus groups went so far as to say that participation should be mandatory, a controversial approach. Based on our research, we would suggest a modification to the suggestion. Services were valued because they were seen as the mechanism by which women could make progress toward their goals. Perhaps then the program implication is not mandatory services, but a clear connection to services, an awareness of them, and the ability to review goal setting and plans with an on-­site staff member, someone like Rebecca at The Anderson, whom residents adored. In practice and on paper, Rose Hill and The Anderson, both project-­ based, permanent housing programs, are very different in their approach to services. There are advantages and disadvantages to each approach. The heavy reliance on off-­site services at The Anderson is advantageous both based on the diverse needs of survivors and the very different schedules of families. At Rose Hill, where residents qualified for placement based on a disability, on-­site services are beneficial in that they are more accessible and based in a trauma-­informed approach. The approach is also more expensive, likely not feasible for all programs, and perhaps not necessary for all survivors. For agencies that pursue a services-­light model, even one that is well matched with the needs of the residents, the network of referral and off-­site services does present challenges. The success of off-­site services depends, in part, on factors that are beyond the control of the referring agency. Use of off-­site services depends on their accessibility and location, as well as resident initiative. Even services that are close and easily accessible via public transportation may seem too much like a chore for residents to make the effort to attend. Services must also be appropriate to the population. Mental health services in particular must be trauma-­ informed and meet the needs of IPV survivors.

Housing Tenure: Permanent or Long-­Term? Focus group participants in Connecticut agreed on flexible, but ultimately time-­limited stays. Women stressed flexibility because they agreed a time-­ line for leaving the housing should be based solely on a family’s ability to leave, rather than agency policy. Permanent housing is not as contradictory to this suggestion as it may seem. Because affordable housing typically charges residents 30 percent of their income in rent, if a family increases its income significantly, its rental contribution can end up being as much



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as unsubsidized rent. Moreover, as discussed in chapter 2, many, although not all, residents of The Anderson planned to eventually move out of the building. As we have discussed, it may be more intuitive to refer to long-­ term housing instead of permanent housing. After all, how many people actually view their current apartments or houses as their forever, permanent homes? When better options arise or financial situations improve, families in all types of housing situations would consider moving on. As survivors, residents, and staff noted, those decisions should be based exclusively on individuals’ needs and desires.

Safety Finally, focus group participants were concerned about safety and visitors. At The Anderson, as highlighted in chapter 2, safety was a universal theme for residents. The lively, and ultimately inconclusive, discussion about visitors highlighted the concerns of potential residents in Connecticut regarding both physical and psychological safety and security. They discussed potential physical dangers to individual women as well as the protection of the psychological security of all residents. Those who felt safe in their housing were aware that safety enabled them to make progress in other areas of their lives, such as finding work, attending school, or making new friends. It is in this area that we see the most significant differences between the traditional models of both permanent supportive housing and housing first and the adaptations for IPV survivors. The primacy of safety and the nuances of safety planning tied to the unique circumstances of individual women support the existence of multiple pathways and approaches to long-­term housing. Safety presents differently in a large city like New York, where most residents at The Anderson were living in a different borough from their abusers, than it does in smaller and rural communities, where survivors may not be far from their abusers and the lack of multifamily housing means it is not possible to include features like cameras and security guards.

Role of Residents We end this chapter with a discussion about the role of residents themselves in housing for IPV survivors, not as an afterthought, but to emphasize the challenges in incorporating residents’ opinions and insights.

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Focus group participants in Connecticut felt strongly that survivors should be involved in program design and management. They suggested meetings between staff and residents and an advisory council so survivors had a strong voice in decisions. However, when we revisited the site in 2015, staff told us that current residents did not participate in such meetings. One explanation is that participation in program operations is very appealing until the realities of day-­to-­day life take over. Another might be a disconnect between what survivors imagined program involvement to be and what resident meetings are in reality. Residents at The Anderson expressed frustration and disappointment with some of the resident meetings, which often focused on rules and maintenance issues instead of community needs and services. At The Anderson, we witnessed the growth of an informal structure of support, with various women taking the lead on issues and needs. Instead of spending time and energy working with administrators, women worked without or around them. For example, a couple of the women at The Anderson described to us their conversations with staff about using common space for a daycare co-­op. From an administration perspective, such a request is immense, one that would necessitate investigation into licenses and insurance and would likely need an influx of additional funds. From the residents’ perspectives that question was more worthy of energy and organizing efforts than recycling options. Women thus established an informal babysitting network. We suspect that similar examples are found at other programs. We are also aware of other organizations that have had more successful experiences with advisory councils and survivor involvement. These programs are acknowledging their lineage with the first emergency shelters, described in chapter 3, in which survivor involvement was mandated and essential. IN THIS CHAPTER,

we considered the perspectives of potential residents

and residents on long-­term housing models for IPV survivors. We conclude that there is no one model that could meet the needs of all survivors and thus a variety of approaches are merited and needed. Variations in needs related to services and safety and the goals and long-­term plans of women mean that some women will be able to thrive in a scattered site, housing-­ first model while others, particularly those with multiple barriers, may



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need a project-­based model. Although we focused on variations to permanent supportive housing models, some of the women in our Connecticut focus groups confidently stated that they would not want to reside in that type of building. For these women, efforts focused on innovations in place and advocacy efforts to make sure IPV survivors have access to a broad range of housing options are critical. In the next chapter, we will synthesize the major lessons learned throughout the book. We turn to next steps in the final part of the book with a concluding chapter focused on research and policy and an epilogue written by a leading practitioner in the field.

8 Moving Forward Research and Policy

In this concluding chapter, we choose to look forward rather than back. We reflect on opportunities and choices for IPV survivors, advocates, providers, and policymakers who want to broaden and refine housing options for survivors. The issue of housing for IPV survivors is a dynamic one, and thus cannot be neatly summarized. As we have noted, no one housing type best meets the long-­term housing and service needs of all IPV survivors. Advocates and providers continue to develop and refine models. Public funding has been uneven. Research and policy must continue to inform the evolving response to the long-­term housing needs of IPV survivors. In the last twenty years, it has become widely understood that housing can and should serve as a platform for the delivery of supportive services. Policies and programs are still evolving in order to establish this platform for IPV survivors. We have shown that long-­term housing for IPV survivors can take many forms. Within one household, several types of housing may be appropriate as the household moves through the process of leaving the abuse behind and becoming stable—­physically, psychologically, and financially. Housing for IPV survivors therefore may best be provided by larger organizations with expertise in the needs of this population. Large organizations can use economies of scale and make flexible and voluntary supportive services available to families at different stages in the process. Deep and broad expertise in the issue of IPV is equally important as providers develop

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programs that are trauma-­informed, and therefore most likely to have positive outcomes. We have described effective programs developed by organizations that meet both of the above criteria: they are relatively large, and are committed to understanding and addressing IPV. These organizations also have flexible and evolving approaches to IPV, grounded in their own experiences and in research findings. The District Alliance for Safe Housing in Washington, DC, provides emergency, transitional, and transitional-­ to-­ permanent housing, as well as a Housing Resource Center and Housing Resource Clinic to connect survivors with existing resources, and ensure that those resources are able to meet the needs of survivors. DASH establishes partnerships with homelessness service providers “on the ground,” and is thus able to work collaboratively with them, and demonstrate the effectiveness of IPV-­specific support. It is clear that DASH’s success comes in part from its ability to use the knowledge and connections gained from its various programs to inform others. In addition, staff can work on several different programs. New Destiny Housing, in New York City, which developed the program that is one of our case studies in this book, is another example of an organization that is large enough that it can leverage its resources and use them across programs. The Prudence Crandall Center in Connecticut, the developer of Rose Hill, our other case study, also provides services to survivors and their families at various points in their transition to stability. In our search for organizations across the United States, we found others that can serve as models for best practice, many of which are described in chapter 5, and a growing number of domestic violence agencies with extensive programs in other service areas that are exploring the idea of long-­term housing. We also found smaller organizations, many of which were motivated by admirable intentions, but faced challenges in developing or acquiring the resources and expertise to offer flexible, voluntary, and trauma-­informed services while also providing safe, affordable, long-­ term housing. Sometimes funding pressures or opportunities led organizations to become housing developers when they simply did not have the organizational capabilities. For example, the leaders of Women Aware in New Jersey believe in retrospect that it may have been a mistake for them to take on a housing development project, as it diverted them from



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their core mission and expertise. They do not regret providing permanent supportive housing in their community, but we were impressed by their self-­reflection about how the opportunity resulted in mission drift that may not have been the right choice for the organization, its clients, and its community. Their experience and the experience of other trauma-­ informed programs point to the importance of continuing and building coordinated approaches. Not all individual agencies need to provide services at every point in the continuum of care, but communities do. Coordination and cooperation among service providers in all realms, not just domestic violence, but also homelessness, mental health, criminal justice, and others, provide a strong foundation for current and future long-­term housing models, particularly in the absence of federal policies and funding streams.

Open Policy Windows and Housing Solutions for IPV Survivors A number of theories attempt to conceptualize how public policies are made. One well-­known theory and a helpful approach to understanding the past, present, and future development of housing models for IPV survivors is the multiple streams model articulated by John Kingdon (1995) in Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies, originally published in 1984. Kingdon argues that three streams or processes must align in order for an opportunity or policy window to open: the problem stream, the policy stream, and the political stream. The problem stream refers to the emergence and understanding of problems. According to Kingdon, problems can capture the attention of the public through dramatic events or perceived changes in the world around us. In this dynamic stream, some problems emerge while others fade: sometimes because they are solved, other times because they are forgotten. The policy or research stream consists of the study, evaluation, and formation of policy proposals. The third stream in Kingdon’s model is the political stream, which refers to partisan, electoral, and interest group factors. Unlike the policy stream, which is characterized by persuasion and the diffusion of ideas and evidence, the politics stream is defined by power, bargaining, and favors. The three streams converge when an issue is generally and widely recognized as a problem worthy of action, a viable proposal or solution exists

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in the policy or research stream, and actors in the political stream agree with the problem definition and are favorably inclined to pursue the proposal. When this convergence or merging of streams occurs, a policy window opens. The issue moves onto the “decision agenda,” and for a limited amount of time, policy change is possible. Discussion can lead to action. This book has described several key moments of policy change regarding housing and IPV survivors; the Kingdon model also helps to explain why we currently are not poised for major policy change that would support long-­term housing options for IPV survivors. In this conclusion, we consider as well how advocates, providers, and researchers could create the conditions for such change.

Understanding Past Policy Developments The first policy change described in this book was the establishment of emergency shelters for families escaping IPV in the 1970s. As we described, this movement was born out of the feminist movement. That movement redefined the problem of domestic violence as a societal issue rather than a family issue. In the policy stream, over the course of a decade, a series of different program models were developed, tested, and refined. In the political stream, women’s advocacy groups advanced the issue, framing it as one that crossed boundaries of class, race, and geography. Sympathetic elected and appointed officials developed the legislation that ultimately provided stable funding to support emergency shelters designed for IPV survivors. Public policies therefore created the initial support women needed in order to escape unsafe living environments and start to rebuild their lives. The second significant policy change was the shift of funding and program emphasis to transitional housing. The problem became evident in the 1980s, as affordable housing was scarcer, and survivors were increasingly unable to leave emergency shelters because they could not find housing. In the policy stream, the simultaneous crisis of family homelessness led to the creation and testing of new models of transitional housing. In the political stream, when citizens and elected officials were confronted with families living on the streets, the issue of homelessness became public and urgent. Public policies sought to address the broader problem of homelessness with transitional housing, but this programmatic shift also affected housing for IPV survivors.



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The third significant policy change was the recognition at the federal level, in the 2000s, that IPV survivors needed legal protections so that they could keep scarce affordable housing after leaving an abusive relationship. The problem surfaced when it became clear that IPV victims were losing units of public housing, Section 8 housing vouchers, and affordable private market housing because their names were not on leases, or because criminal activity associated with domestic violence resulted in their eviction or the denial of their applications for new housing. The 2005 and 2013 reauthorizations of the Violence Against Women Act created and strengthened new public policies, by establishing protections for IPV survivors to ensure that they could remain in affordable housing if it was a viable option in terms of safety.

Considering Possible Policy Changes Advocates, providers, and survivors have all expressed interest in and the need for long-­term housing for IPV survivors. Such housing would be available to households for as long as they deem themselves in need of it, and would offer voluntary and flexible supports and services. When we consider this issue using the Kingdon model, however, it is clear that the streams have not aligned and thus that a policy window for change has not opened. While there is growing awareness of the problem of inadequate long-­term housing for IPV survivors, the politics have not coalesced behind this problem and one clear, evidence-­ based proposal has not gained unanimous or majority support in the policy stream. Thus, policy change has been incremental for the most part. In Kingdon’s scheme, federal reauthorizations of legislation in the housing, homelessness, and domestic violence arenas could provide possible “predictable windows” for policy change. But our research has shown that these windows are not likely to open soon. Instead, advocates are working creatively with existing resources, and seeking to maximize impacts through collaboration.

What Do We Need to Figure Out? In the policy stream, questions remain unanswered as advocates and policymakers try to craft housing policies and programs for IPV survivors that

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are appropriately supportive yet flexible. Our research has led us to identify some of the key questions that must be considered.

Is a History of IPV a Disability? First, should a background of IPV be considered a disability on its face for the purpose of housing eligibility? Should we assume that any IPV survivor has experienced trauma that amounts to a disability? Alternatively, should the trauma be verified? Should the survivor be considered disabled forever, or is there an end point to the disability status? Given increased attention to and funding for healthcare under the Affordable Care Act, should advocates emphasize survivors’ fragile physical and mental health in order to secure enhanced funding? Or will such a strategy jeopardize child custody for survivors?

What Are Appropriate Outcomes for IPV-­Specific Housing? Second, how should we define and measure outcomes for IPV-­ specific housing? We believe that “self-­sufficiency” is overused, vague, and unattainable. Particularly in the current economic climate, few middle-­income people are self-­sufficient—­many receive some sort of support from the government, private institutions, or family. We prefer “stability” as an outcome, and by that we mean stability in housing, mental health, physical health, family well-­being, and income. However, how should stability be measured, and what are reasonable goals for families that have experienced IPV? Should we be considering the cost-­effectiveness of IPV-­specific housing in the same way that permanent supportive housing has been measured as cost-­ effective for severely mentally ill formerly homeless people?

How Can We Recognize the Importance of Trauma? Third, what will it take for protocols across substantive service areas to become trauma-­informed? Our research suggests that many existing housing models can be adapted to work for many IPV survivors, if the providers understand how trauma can affect residents’ needs and responses. We anticipate that a trauma-­informed approach could result in significant cost savings, as survivors receiving appropriate services immediately would then need less support once stable.



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How Do We Address Diverse Needs and Circumstances Related to Identity and Place? Fourth, IPV survivors are diverse in terms of their race, class, ethnicity, immigration status, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Their communities, both geographic and identity-­based, are also diverse. Providers of housing and services, many of whom inhabit different identities, need to acknowledge this diversity and meet survivors’ needs with appropriate services. Determining the shape of these services will require research and testing of models.

Moving Forward As we conducted the research for this book, we became increasingly uncomfortable referring to housing as “permanent”—­who among us considers our living situations as permanent? We realized that “long-­term” makes more sense as it indicates that the decision about length of stay should rest with the survivor, and that it will vary depending on individual needs and on the broader macro-­environment, particularly the local housing market. Most of the survivors we interviewed had plans to move out of their “permanent” apartments; some of these plans were concrete and backed up by actionable steps, whereas others were much more general, reflecting the diverse needs and situations of IPV survivors. Based on our research, we propose a new approach to thinking about housing models, an approach that is described and developed over the course of this book. We suggest eliminating the distinctions between transitional housing, supportive housing, and permanent housing, and replacing them with “long-­term” housing, in which households can stay for whatever period of time works for them to become stable—­which may be forever. A movement to long-­term housing needs the support of key actors. Kingdon emphasizes the role of “policy entrepreneurs” in fostering the climate that is a precondition to policy change. For the issue of IPV, state-­level coalitions working on domestic violence have taken on pieces of this entrepreneurial role, beginning in the 1980s. There is no entrepreneur focused on the housing issue, however. Key players are—­with reason—­focused on challenging task of maintaining current levels of funding and support in

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the face of sequestration. In the absence of federal leadership on this issue, moreover, state and national domestic violence coalitions and advocacy organizations are critically important to its advancement. These organizations, which are not consumed with the day-­to-­day work of serving IPV survivors, can link local organizations with similar challenges and opportunities, note national and regional trends and needs, and advocate for funding and legislative changes. Local organizations, by developing and testing programs, not only serve families that need their support, but also explore new partnerships and models, and educate policymakers and the public about best practices. We are aware that some local groups have begun to collaborate to pool their knowledge and expand their base of power, and we find this an exciting development. IPV survivors, as consumers of housing and services, must also be involved in the development and delivery of programs, and we recognize that involvement as simultaneously challenging and essential.

Epilogue A Practitioner’s Perspective CARO L CO RD EN

A new unit of the New York Police Department devoted to domestic violence response was the focus of a July 2013 story in the New York Times. The story described two officers responding to a domestic violence incident at an address they had visited repeatedly. When they arrived, they went through the protocol again, advising the woman to press charges and to leave what was clearly a dangerous situation. To the frustration of the police, she refused any help. Looked at in one way, this is an old story that supports those who wonder, “Why doesn’t she leave?” This question is frequently asked by landlords, the police, government officials, the press, and foundation funders, among others. But from the survivor’s perspective, things look much different. The question facing her is “where can I go?” She is well aware that, on her own, she cannot afford rent for a New York City apartment. Going to an emergency shelter will disrupt her kids’ lives and, because shelter stays are temporary and time-­limited, she will face the same question of where to go in a very short time. She may be weighing what it means to pull her eight year old out of school and take him away from his friends and to remove her three year old from relatives who care for her while the survivor works. Based on the survivor’s calculus, staying with her batterer and risking physical, psychological, economic, and sexual abuse may seem preferable to making herself and her children homeless. Affordable housing is frequently the elephant in the room when we discuss domestic violence, its survivors, and their options. Thanks to years

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of advocacy, most areas in the United States have some kind of emergency shelter for those fleeing domestic violence. But what happens after the brief stay in emergency shelter ends? We still have not confronted the larger question of how to break the cycle of violence by ensuring that survivors remain safe after the immediate crisis has passed. Hilary Botein and Andrea Hetling’s book focuses on the elephant in the room—­the need for permanent or long-­term housing—­which they view as a, or perhaps the, critical piece of the safety net for low-­income survivors of IPV. That this book has been written at all indicates that there has been progress in recognizing what survivors need to achieve long-­term stability. However, their book also reveals how far the nation still has to go to address low-­income survivors’ needs for safe, affordable long-­term housing and it raises some of the questions that remain to be answered about how best to do this. Here I would like to reflect on several aspects of the challenge of providing long-­term housing for low-­income survivors of IPV. Three dimensions of the problem, in particular, offer insights into the ambivalence about and lack of a unified approach to this issue: (1) the physical dimension—­what does it take to build and operate housing that serves domestic violence survivors after leaving emergency shelter? (2) the services dimension—­what kind of services (if any) do IPV survivors need to remain safe and stable, how should those services be provided, and who will pay for them? (3) the political dimension—­why have homeless families and domestic violence survivors been so persistently neglected by housing programs and policies for the homeless? My perspective on these issues is informed by three decades of experience in affordable housing, including twenty years as the director of a nonprofit housing provider, New Destiny Housing Corporation in New York City. First, the physical dimension. New Destiny Housing and a half dozen other nonprofits across the country have been able to develop long-­term housing targeted to homeless domestic violence survivors. New Destiny,

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located in New York City, has been fortunate to have access to several capital funding resources, including Low Income Housing Tax Credits, the nation’s largest affordable housing program. But, in New York as elsewhere, the amount of housing created has been dwarfed by the scale of homelessness caused by domestic violence, and there hasn’t been a clear template or program that has facilitated the development of housing for this particular group. Developing permanent or long-­term housing for domestic violence survivors remains at best a niche, not a mainstream, activity.

Why Is This? Developing and operating housing is a complicated process involving a unique skill set. It requires long-­term planning, specialized knowledge and expertise, and stamina as well as a toleration of risk. Housing development is an expensive activity that involves identifying and accessing funding streams different from those that social service providers typically use. It involves several discrete, complicated steps that need to be carefully sequenced and coordinated. It’s necessary to identify and secure a site or a building; obtain acquisition financing; assemble a development team including an architect, lawyer, and contractor; create a plan that lays out the costs of both project development and operation; apply for and obtain capital funding from multiple funding sources with different requirements, application deadlines, and award criteria; oversee the construction or rehabilitation of the project; market and rent it; and then operate and maintain the building. Most service providers are unaccustomed to the long timelines involved in building development and construction, feel uncomfortable with the risk, are intimidated by the specialized knowledge required, and are distracted by the pressing everyday needs of their clients. As a result, a large gulf separates social service providers and advocates for survivors of IPV, on the one hand, and housing developers and operators, on the other, resulting in weak linkages between the two. Those agencies that serve or advocate for domestic violence survivors, or both, have traditionally focused on responding to crisis. They recognize the importance of safe, stable housing for their clients’ well-­being but understand

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very little about the challenges confronting affordable housing operators. So, for example, a survivor’s need for long-­term housing seems much more important to many service providers than her ability to pay rent. For the operator of housing, however, the utility bills, insurance, and the super’s salary must be paid, and to do that the owner is dependent upon obtaining sufficient income from rents to cover operating costs. But the economics of housing is often poorly understood by service providers and advocates, further contributing to the lack of understanding between the two worlds. Most social service providers and advocates, while recognizing that long-­term housing is key, have continued to focus their efforts and energies on criminal justice efforts, expanding and improving shelter options, and awareness campaigns. Long-­term housing, which service providers and advocates understand far less, remains far down on the list of priorities. The second dimension of the long-­ term housing problem for IPV survivors involves services. Low-­income domestic violence survivors frequently need more than “just” housing to remain safe and stable. On this issue, there is agreement between most agencies serving domestic violence survivors and the owners and managers of long-­term housing. Social service providers advocate for aftercare services postshelter, and New York City funds a large and diverse network of nonresidential service providers. Owners and managers of affordable housing, meanwhile, who provide housing to survivors of IPV, recognize the need for the security of the building and for avoiding future episodes of domestic violence. They want survivors in their housing to have access to services if necessary. There is no consensus, however, about what services are needed, how they should be provided, how long they should be provided, and, most important, how they should be paid for. As Hetling and Botein note in chapter 5, national advocates, like the National Network to End Domestic Violence, are not recommending a federal funding stream dedicated to housing for domestic violence survivors. One reason for this may be the fear of “blaming the victim” by stigmatizing and isolating survivors in specialized housing. Another may be lack of agreement about a housing model that fits the diverse needs of IPV survivors. But, whatever the explanation, the lack of a strong unified voice for long-­term housing for IPV survivors is indicative of the confusion and ambivalence in the field around this issue. As a result, advocates have not

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argued with a consistent voice about the need for supportive housing for low-­income survivors of IPV at risk of homelessness. I would argue that while not every domestic violence survivor needs services, most homeless low-­income survivors coming from domestic violence shelters do and this is the population New Destiny has served in its housing. The effects of domestic violence can be long lasting and often do impair everyday functioning. Episodic homelessness and poverty increase the likelihood of continued domestic violence and housing instability. The availability of voluntary services at the housing where survivors reside contributes to and, in some cases, makes possible their long-­term stability and safety. New Destiny has provided long-­term housing in which 50 percent of the units are reserved for previously homeless domestic violence survivors. The mix of tenants—­survivors of IPV and families and individuals from the general community—­has reduced the stigma that might be attached to a building composed 100 percent of domestic violence survivors, normalizes the building environment, and makes the project invisible to the neighborhood. New Destiny’s on-­site services have always been voluntary. We believe that services should not be mandated for domestic violence survivors who have been subjected to the power and control of their abusers. Engaging tenants—­ through residents’ meetings, building events and social occasions, and children’s activities—­ has been instrumental in connecting them to staff and other residents and helping them rebuild their social networks. Critical services available on-­site have included (1) safety planning, (2) benefits management, (3) eviction prevention, (4) children’s services and activities, (5) financial planning and budgeting, and (6) vocational planning. On-­site staff also refer tenants to legal, health and mental health, and job training services off-­site. A word is necessary about eviction prevention. Getting into long-­term housing is difficult for homeless IPV survivors, but staying there involves a whole new set of challenges. The responsibilities of tenancy—­paying rent on time, being respectful to neighbors, recycling trash—­are new to many survivors who might never have lived on their own. Stretching very low incomes, balancing conflicting needs (e.g., shoes for children, gifts for

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birthdays), and maintaining rental subsidies and public benefits makes rent payment precarious at best. The ability to intervene early when tenants fall behind in rent payment and to help them seek out available resources can make the difference between housing stability and homelessness. Hetling and Botein note, accurately, that the staffing in New Destiny’s housing for homeless domestic violence survivors is lean due to lack of service funding. New Destiny has been willing to commit scarce general operating funding to support on-­site services because we believe so strongly that access to services makes a difference to the health of the building and to the stability, long-­term safety, and well-­being of the adults and children who live there. There are few if any resources in New York City, as in most of the nation, dedicated to supporting on-­site services at long-­term housing serving low-­income domestic violence survivors. Applicants for capital funding to construct housing that includes units for the homeless are required to describe the services to be provided and how they will be funded. But, in the absence of dedicated government funding, very few housing providers are able or willing to use general operating funds for on-­site support services. As a result, the long-­term housing with services such as New Destiny offers to homeless domestic violence survivors is rarely provided. Investigating why there is so little funding to support service-­enriched housing for survivors leads us to the third aspect of the discussion of long-­ term housing for domestic violence survivors—­the political dimension. Domestic violence survivors show up on every list of groups that are at risk of homelessness. Domestic violence is recognized by the U.S. Conference of Mayors as one of the major causes of homelessness in American cities. In New York City, it has been identified as second only to evictions as a generator of family homelessness. Why, then, have domestic violence survivors been so persistently neglected by supportive housing programs and policies for the homeless? Most available resources for homelessness in New York City, as elsewhere, have gone to homeless single men on the street. They are the most visible manifestation of the “homeless problem”—­the homeless individuals we see in parks, in train and bus stations—­and thus the most disturbing aspect of homelessness encountered by the general public and elected officials.

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Supportive housing, or permanent housing with on-­site services, which developed as a way of dealing with deinstitutionalization in the 1980s, has been almost exclusively focused on homeless single men whose mental illness, substance abuse history, or other medical or physical disability has contributed to their chronic homelessness. Because this model has focused on the most visible manifestation of homelessness, the street homeless, it has not been applied to the vast army of the “invisible homeless,” composed of families with children, who are more likely to be doubled up with relatives and friends, camping in hotels, or living in other transient situations. Homeless families have, in fact, been largely ignored by programs and policies targeting the homeless until relatively recently. The 2009 Homeless Emergency Assistance and Rapid Transition to Housing Act explicitly recognizes homeless families as well as domestic violence survivors fleeing abuse (called Category 4 homeless in the statute), but it does so without increasing the resources available to address these populations. The focus of the existing dollars, and the point system used to allocate funding, has remained focused on Category 1 homeless—­chronically homeless individuals on the street or in short-­term shelter. The emphasis on the chronic homeless by HUD has shaped local government priorities and worked to the disadvantage of homeless families including those headed by domestic violence survivors. Shelters for domestic violence survivors tend to be short term—­in New York City, the maximum stay in a shelter is six months. By contrast, the federal definition of “chronically homeless”—­one of the criterion that qualifies an applicant for access to support—­is at least twelve months in shelter or four episodes of homelessness in three years. HUD’s emphasis on “medical disability,” another criterion used to rank homeless housing projects, has also worked against families—­particularly families headed by domestic violence survivors. “Domestic violence” is not a diagnosis or a disability—­although it could result in both for some individuals. Many survivors are unwilling to be labeled with a medical diagnosis, fearing that such a diagnosis could threaten custody arrangements. Low-­ income families in general fear child welfare involvement; low-­income families headed by domestic violence survivors fear that their batterers, as well as the child welfare system, might use a diagnosis as a reason to remove their children.

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Given the politics of homelessness, what can providers do who believe that long-­term housing is a critical resource for domestic violence survivors to remain stable and safe over the long term? To answer this question, we need to remember—­as Hetling and Botein remind us repeatedly in their book—­that individuals who are survivors of domestic violence are as varied and diverse as the general population. One in four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime. For lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer individuals this figure may be even higher. Domestic violence is not a poor person’s issue; it happens to people regardless of economic status, race, ethnicity, or creed. But for low-­income survivors of domestic violence—­those especially vulnerable to homelessness—­finding and affording safe alternative housing is a particularly daunting challenge. Perhaps the needs of this segment of the domestic violence population have been neglected by domestic violence advocates in part because of their concern about “blaming the victim,” stigmatizing or labeling survivors, and violating personal privacy and confidentiality. But given the importance of housing as a platform for long-­term security, it’s imperative that advocates for domestic violence survivors tackle this issue head-­on. We first need to begin a dialogue on housing among domestic violence advocates, perhaps through the state coalitions mentioned by Hetling and Botein, and then reach out to include affordable and supportive housing providers in the discussion. Appropriate long-­ term housing for low-­ income survivors will vary depending upon the needs of the domestic violence survivors to be served and the choices that survivors make. There is no “one size fits all” solution. However, those with the fewest resources and at the greatest risk for continued domestic violence and homelessness should receive priority. Some of the directions to be explored and pursued would be the following: (1) RAPID REHOUSING . For survivors with some financial resources seeking to leave a dangerous situation, the best and most cost-­efficient approach is to link them with safe, affordable housing with access to off-­ site services. Domestic violence service providers can facilitate the transition to long-­term housing through agreements with landlords—­as both DASH, in Washington, DC, and Volunteers of America’s Home Free Program in Oregon have done.

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(2) HOUSING SET-­A SIDES .  Domestic violence service providers should work with affordable housing developers and operators to identify units that could be set aside for survivors fleeing abuse or timing out of emergency shelter. In some cases, services could be provided on-­site; in others, survivors could be linked with off-­site services. (3) SUPPORTIVE HOUSING .  Providers and advocates should seek to include domestic violence survivors as an eligible category for supportive housing funding—­one that does not depend on a medical diagnosis. Supportive housing covers a wide variety of housing types that range from facilities where 100 percent of residents are characterized as a “special needs” population and the services are extensive to projects where only a portion of the tenants are special needs and the services are relatively lean. Different approaches are necessary to address the needs of different populations. Supportive housing for individuals who have been previously incarcerated might look very different from supportive housing for individuals with a substance abuse history or for homeless families fleeing domestic violence. But all can be cost-­ effective ways of helping individuals and families to remain safe and stable in long-­term housing. Homeless domestic violence survivors should also have priority for public housing, rental set-­asides in publicly funded affordable housing, and rental subsidy programs. And, of course, all domestic violence survivors, regardless of income, should be protected against landlord abuses by fair housing laws. Safe, affordable housing is the primary service that domestic violence survivors request, and service providers and advocates need to pay attention to this. The lack of appropriate long-­term housing makes survivors and their children more likely to remain in dangerous situations longer as well as more likely to return to the batterer after a brief stay in a shelter. Botein and Hetling’s book makes an important, and unique, contribution to our understanding of the housing needs of IPV survivors. It also illustrates how important it is that domestic violence advocates work together to test models, identify best practices, and expand the long-­term housing resources survivors need to reclaim their lives and remain both stable and violence-­free.

APPENDIX: METHODS

Primary qualitative data presented in this book come from two in-­depth case studies and a number of interviews with experts in intimate partner violence and housing policies. The two case studies, Rose Hill and The Anderson, are projects we completed in 2008 and 2014, respectively. Our approach to both case studies was based on the extended case study method, drawing on a research design developed by Michael Burawoy (1991). The research goal is to contribute to the existing literature by refining theory; expected findings are compared with actual observations, and the differences are used to revise theory to ensure its robustness and relevance. In the extended case study method, researchers start from existing theories and literature, and then use a case study to refine or improve theory. It is a reflexive method of inquiry with the goal of theory reconstruction.

Case Study: Rose Hill Rose Hill is a permanent supportive housing program developed by the Prudence Crandall Center, a nonprofit service provider in central Connecticut. We conducted the research on Rose Hill in 2007 while the project was still in the development stage to understand the program theory and project development. The University of Connecticut’s Institutional Review Board approved the research project, as we were both faculty members at the university at that time.

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The program’s building, also referred to as Rose Hill, was undergoing substantial rehabilitation. Construction was scheduled to be completed in the summer of 2008, when the program would serve its first clients. During the time of our original study, administrators were determining how the program should be structured. We examined the program theory of Rose Hill, using three qualitative data collection methods and gathering data from multiple stakeholders involved in the development of the program. First, we reviewed program documents related to the design of Rose Hill, provided by the Prudence Crandall Center, looking for descriptions of the program, its goals, and its intended operation. These documents included press releases, program brochures and newsletters, and the program’s U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development funding application. We also reviewed the Center’s website and media coverage of the new program. Second, we conducted in-­ depth stakeholder interviews with seven program administrators and community advocates from March to June 2007. We selected interviewees based on their knowledge of or involvement with the development of permanent supportive housing models for survivors of IPV both locally and nationally. On the local level, we interviewed executive staff and key board members of the Prudence Crandall Center. We chose individuals who were intimately involved in the development of the program design as well as in the development of external support, including funding and community approval. We also interviewed state and national advocates from the Connecticut Coalition of Domestic Violence and the National Network to End Domestic Violence to understand the relevance of housing to advocates for IPV survivors beyond this one program. Interviews were semistructured with open-­ended questions and probes and lasted between twenty-­five and sixty-­five minutes. These interviews explored the emergence of support for permanent supportive housing programs among the domestic violence advocacy community and specifically the development of the Rose Hill program, from the original idea to its implementation. The protocol included questions on the respondent’s understanding of the program theory behind the model, including the activities and intended outcomes, as well as the obstacles and parameters,

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such as funding restrictions, legal and political constraints, and professional practice standards, encountered in developing the program. We followed one interview with a second interview to clarify particular points; two additional interviews were followed by specific questions and answers exchanged via e-­mail. Third, we conducted six focus groups with women who would be targets of the program. We conducted these focus groups between March and June 2007. All participants had current or past experience of IPV and were participating in support groups sponsored by one of four domestic violence agencies in central Connecticut. Cooperating agencies posted recruitment flyers for study participants and supplied meeting rooms to hold the groups. Support from the agencies was critical in recruiting study participants. Because flyers were posted in offices and meeting rooms, potential participants learned about the study in a safe location. Moreover, because the topic of the focus group was of interest to both clients and caseworkers, informal discussions and comments in the hallways and during support groups also helped recruitment. Two of the groups were with women currently living in domestic violence shelters, one of which consisted of five women residing in the Prudence Crandall emergency shelter. Three groups were community-­based groups with participants living in a variety of housing situations including doubling up with friends and family, renting apartments, and owning single-­family homes. One focus group had a mix of shelter and nonresidential clients. One of us facilitated each focus group, accompanied by a research assistant to take notes and work the recorder. The number of participants at each evening session ranged from three to seven, with an average of five women. Participants ranged in age from their early twenties to their late fifties. Two-­thirds of the participants were white, about 20 percent African American, 10 percent Latina, and 5 percent Asian, reflecting the racial demographics of the communities. We approximate that 20 percent of the participants were foreign-­born. We gave women an information sheet describing the project and they orally consented to participate; we collected no identifying information from participants. Discussions lasted between forty-­five and seventy minutes, and participants received a $15 gift card to a local grocery store as compensation for their time. The focus group protocol consisted of twelve questions with a number of probes.

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Questions focused on the women’s current housing experiences and their opinions of the new project plans. The majority of the time was devoted to discussing their preferences for an ideal program as well as women’s reactions to a supportive permanent housing model exclusively for IPV survivors. Interview and focus group sessions were digitally recorded and then transcribed verbatim. The coding of the interview data was fairly straightforward. To identify the themes that emerged from the collective interviews, we used an open-­ coding process to analyze the transcriptions. Both authors participated in the coding process and discussed emerging themes and the development of categories. Using the interview instrument as a topic guide, we coded the answers to each question, focusing on the appearance and frequency of different types of program goals and the interviewee’s understanding of the program theory. We also verified the project’s history and current conception of program activities by comparing the accounts of various stakeholders. Finally, we identified references to external influences on program development, refining the coding process as analyses revealed additional influences. We focused here both on the identification of influences and the interviewees’ perception of the influence as it related to project development. Inter-­rater coding agreement on all themes was high. Coding of the focus group transcripts was more complex, as the focus group instrument was more flexible and the breadth of possible answers to the focus group questions was considerably broader than the possible answers to our interview questions. Focus group coding was guided by a typology constructed before data collection; the original typology was based on the focus group instrument coupled with possible themes based on IPV theories and empirical evaluations of other permanent housing models and their logic models. The coding tool covered five sections: participants’ perceptions of the advantages and disadvantages of the new model; their opinions of program goals and services; length of stay; rules and regulations; and involvement in program development. We listed the appearance of new themes and comments and noted the frequency of the comment. The extent of consensus on the opinion and the strength of dissenting voices were also recorded, as were instances when continued conversations led to a consensus. Finally, similar answers were grouped

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into response categories. The details of the coding tool and the types and number of answers were refined extensively throughout the coding process as analyses revealed additional themes and disconnects. To ensure consistency in the coding of the transcripts, we both coded two of the six focus group transcripts independently and then compared our findings. The themes identified independently were very similar, and small inconsistencies were resolved. Given high inter-­rater reliability, the remaining four focus group transcripts were divided between the two researchers for coding using a refined coding matrix. In May 2015, we returned to Rose Hill for a follow-­up visit. We met with the executive director, associate director, and the director of development, none of whom had been on staff at the time of our initial research. The group interview lasted about two hours. We discussed how the program had evolved, in ways that its planners had anticipated and ways that they had not. We considered which aspects of the program were successful, which had required modifications, and which were still not working well. The executive director then gave us a tour of the facility.

Case Study: The Anderson Our second case study is based on New Destiny’s Anderson Avenue project, known as The Anderson, a permanent supportive housing model located in the Bronx, New York. The building, which opened in December 2012, has forty-­one units, half of which are set aside for IPV survivors coming from emergency and transitional shelters. The Anderson is a “services-light” model with limited voluntary services available at the site. A full-­time tenant support coordinator, supervised by an off-­site housing services director, provides these services, as well as referrals to other off-­site programs and services. The main goals of the model are to (1) maintain housing stability, (2) keep people safe and violence-­free, and (3) support individual progress toward self-­sufficiency. In the fall of 2012, New Destiny approached us to discuss a qualitative study of the program. After a series of meetings, site visits, and discussions, a longitudinal, exploratory research design was developed. The aim of the research was to understand the experiences of residents, both in terms of struggles and accomplishments, in three areas: housing stability,

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all forms of abuse, and progress toward family economic security. The research project was approved by the Baruch and Rutgers Institutional Review Boards in the spring of 2013. Review board approval for the expansion of the project to Spanish-­language participants was granted in July 2013, and the approval of focus groups was granted in July 2014. The research design consisted of three parts. First, we conducted a program information review and advocate interviews. We interviewed the staff of New Destiny to gain a more complete and formal understanding of the program, its history and funding, and the hopes of administrators in terms of its likely future. We formally interviewed the staff of Anderson Avenue three times to understand the logic model of the program and implementation and service delivery over the project period. We also reviewed documents such as annual reports, pamphlets, and tenant documents to gain a clear understanding of the program design, implementation, and administration. Second, the research project followed residents of the building for almost two years to explore their progress in meeting these goals and the perceived role of The Anderson in supporting their journeys. All twenty IPV survivors at Anderson Avenue were invited to participate in the interview portion of the project. Invitational letters were sent to the twenty IPV residents in April 2013. Follow-­up letters were sent in June. Residents who were interested in participating in the project filled out a form with contact information. A member of the research team then called to schedule an interview. Thirteen IPV survivors at The Anderson agreed to join the research project. Women were given an information sheet describing the project and were told about the interview process, which included four interviews over a period of about eighteen months (at zero, six, twelve, and eighteen months into the project). Research participants were given Target gift cards, starting at $25 for the first interview and in increasing amounts thereafter ($30, $35, and $45) in compensation for their time. The first round of interviews was conducted between May and July 2013 with twelve residents. A thirteenth resident joined the project during the second round of interviews. A bilingual doctoral student at the Rutgers School of Social Work interviewed one of the thirteen residents in Spanish. Interviews lasted between forty and seventy minutes. All thirteen volunteers remained involved throughout the duration of the project, completing all interviews.

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Interviews focused on understanding survivors’ experiences with the program and outcome goals. The interview instrument was informed by other qualitative work done in the fields of housing and IPV, and refined to match the unique goals and circumstances of The Anderson. Interviews were digitally recorded. To complement the in-­depth interviews, we utilized established scales for measures of abuse and financial stability and utilized those during the first and third interviews. We also used a modified version of the Arizona Self-­Sufficiency Matrix during the fourth interview. Third, we conducted two focus groups as follow-­ups to the individual interviews in order to expand the number of women involved in the project and to explore group opinions on the services light model. As we interviewed residents about the support they received at The Anderson and what other services might be useful, we hypothesized that residents might be more likely to think “outside of the box” with some group brainstorming. One focus group was conducted during the day and the other in the evening. Attendance was low: the first focus group had three participants and the second had two, but we did gain an additional research participant for the project. Because the content of the focus groups was very similar to that of the individual interviews, the focus group data confirmed that we had reached a saturation point in the research project. In other words, groups confirmed that we were able to gather a complete understanding of resident perspectives through the interviews. We thus decided not to schedule additional focus groups. Staff and resident interviews were transcribed verbatim and coded for themes using the open-­ ended coding techniques described earlier. Focus group audio files were coded while listening to the audio file. In-­ depth, open-­ended interview questions are complemented by analysis of data from the scale questions on intimate partner violence and economic self-­sufficiency as well as the information from the Arizona Self-­Sufficiency Matrix.

Expert Interviews In addition to the key stakeholder and staff interviews conducted for both of the case studies, we conducted a number of expert interviews in

150 APPENDIX

the spring of 2015. We reached out to executive directors of the agencies described in chapter 5 as well as advocates involved in national and state coalitions. Some interviews were conducted as site visits and in-­person interviews; others were by telephone or Skype. In all cases, a semistructured instrument focused on the experiences and knowledge of the experts served as a guide for the interviews. Interviews lasted between thirty and eighty minutes. Extensive notes were taken by both researchers and later compared for completeness and accuracy.

NOTES

CHAPTER 1  “WHY DOESN’T SHE LEAVE?”

1. Interpersonal violence is a complicated topic, and the lived experiences of those who have experienced violence in intimate relationships are complex and varied. We focus here on women who are experiencing intimate partner violence as explained by the coercive control theory and who want to end the abuse by leaving the relationship. 2. The first survey was completed in 2010; the 2011 survey is the most recently analyzed survey. CHAPTER 2  “HOW DOES HOUSING HELP?”

1. “New Destiny Housing, Family Support Program,” accessed February 2, 2016, http://​www​.newdestinyhousing​.org/​what​-­­we​-­­do/​family​-­­support​-­­program. CHAPTER 3  FIRST STOP

1. This chapter focuses on the history of shelter-­ based responses to IPV. For broader considerations of social policy and IPV in a historical context, see Pleck (2004) and Barner and Carney (2011). 2. She also argues that family violence was not perceived as a public problem because it was seen as related to immorality in low-­income families and communities of color. 3. It is worth noting that the history itself is contested. As Schechter points out, some service providers, government officials, and academics effectively wrote the actions of grassroots feminist activists out of the battered women’s movement, instead perceiving it as a societal awakening. 4. Dobash and Dobash (1992) provide a detailed comparison of policy and program evolution in the United Kingdom and the United States. 5. Shelters for families of alcoholics, such as Rainbow Retreat in Phoenix and Haven House in Pasadena, opened in the 1960s (Schechter 1982), but we focus here on shelters designated specifically for battered women. 6. Health, Education and Welfare was the precursor to the current Department of Health and Human Services.

151

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7. Some shelters imposed even shorter limits—­the Prudence Crandall Center, whose permanent housing is discussed in chapter 6, for example, imposed a five-­day limit in its shelter when it was initially established (Warrior 1978). The rationale was that this time limit would allow them to serve a greater number of women. 8. Reinelt (1995) sees “the state” as “neither a neutral arbiter of gender nor simply a reproducer of existing gender inequalities. It is a site of active contestation over the construction of gender inequalities and power” (87). 9. This conflict is often between radical, socialist, and Marxist feminists, who sought to challenge patriarchy and thus reject hierarchy as a system that in itself oppresses women, and “women’s rights” feminists, who sought to secure equality for women by ending discrimination through the most efficient and effective means possible. 10. This is a common trajectory for many causes and interest groups, as issues move from grassroots organizing to established organizations. 11. Women Aware Staff, site interview with authors, May 11, 2015. 12. “New Destiny Housing,” accessed February 2, 2016, http://​www​.newdestinyhousing​ .org/​who​-­­we​-­­are/​who​-­­we​-­­are. 13. “Domestic Violence Statistics,” accessed February 2, 2016, https://​www​ .domesticshelters​.org/​domestic​-violence​-statistics#. CHAPTER 4  MISMATCH BETWEEN U.S. SOCIAL POLICY AND INTIMATE PARTNER VIOLENCE

1. Unless otherwise stated, we use HUD’s income classifications, which are based on its determination of the Area Median Income for a region. Households at or below 80 percent of AMI are considered low income, households at or below 50 percent of AMI are considered very low income, and households at or below 30 percent of AMI are considered extremely low income. 2. Most PHAs now incorporate some kind of work incentive program, such as the Family Self-­Sufficiency Program, which allows residents to save the increased rent that they are charged as the result of increased employment income. 3. High-­rise design means that parents are unable to watch their children playing outside, safety officers cannot effectively patrol projects, and stairwells and elevators are out of sight and often become locations for crime. 4. Department of Justice Reauthorization Act of 2005, Public Law 109–­162, U.S. Statutes at Large 119 (2006): 2960–­3135. 5. 42 U.S.C. § 14043e. 6. HUD Programs: Violence Against Women Act Conforming Amendments, 42 U.S.C. §§ 14043e-­11; Final Rule, 75 Fed. Reg. 66,246 (Oct. 27, 2010) (codified at 24 C.F.R. Parts 5, 91, 880, and in other sections). 7. Some state and local fair housing laws include protections for IPV survivors, and these protections are becoming more widespread (“State and Local Housing Protections for Domestic Violence Victims Gaining Momentum,” 2008).

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8. American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009, Public Law 111–­5, U.S. Statutes at Large 115 (2009): 115–­521. 9. TANF has its roots in the Social Security Act of 1935 and was originally called the Aid to Dependent Children Program, designed to help poor children who legislators assumed were cared for by widowed mothers. In 1962, the program was renamed to Aid to Families with Dependent Children and the rules were changed so that adult caretakers, including two-­parent households, could receive benefits. The program changed again, in both name and intent, in 1996 to Temporary Assistance to Needy Families, but it remains exclusively focused on families with children or pregnant mothers. Single adults may receive cash through other, similar programs usually called general assistance or emergency assistance. 10. For a summary, see Moffitt 2003. 11. Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act of 1996, Public Law 104–­193, U.S. Statutes at Large 110 (1996): 2105–­2355. 12. Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act of 1996, Public Law 104–­193, U.S. Statutes at Large 110 (1996): 2105–­2355. CHAPTER 5  NATIONAL OVERVIEW

1. Connecticut Coalition Against Domestic Violence staff, in-­ person interview with authors, March 30, 2007. 2. We review a number of agencies across the United States in order to illustrate the different approaches and service models. This is not a comprehensive list of programs. We focused on some of the older, and thus more understood, programs. We are aware of other programs in a number of other states, many of which fall into the categories we created and which are also interesting and important. Yet other programs are contemplating the possibility of moving into housing. We discuss this future as well as the challenges of smaller programs in the conclusion. 3. Violence Against Women and Department of Justice Reauthorization Act of 2005, Public Law 109–­162, U.S. Statutes at Large 119 (2006): 2960–­3135. 4. Advocates have criticized the regulations, however, for imposing unreasonable record-­keeping and eligibility requirements on survivors who have fled their homes. 5. National Network to End Domestic Violence staff, telephone interview with authors, April 22, 2015. 6. Baker et al. (2010) also describe existing program models and challenges. 7. National Network to End Domestic Violence staff, telephone interview with authors, April 22, 2015. 8. “New Hope for Women, Transitional Housing,” accessed February 5, 2016, http://​www​.newhopeforwomen​.org/​transitional​-­­housing. 9. New Hope for Women staff, telephone interview with authors, July 10, 2015. 10. District Alliance for Safe Housing staff, telephone interview with authors, April 21, 2015. 11. District Alliance for Safe Housing staff, telephone interviews with authors, April 21, 2015.

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INDEX

abusive relationships, 13–­24; abuse types, 6, 16–­18; barriers to leaving, 5–­6, 19–­21, 133–­134; coercive control theory, 6, 14–­15, 16; housing instability, 21–­23; impact of, 6, 18–­23; return to abusers, 20, 53, 97, 101, 106, 141. See also intimate partner violence (IPV) Affordable Care Act, 130 affordable housing, 61–­62; innovations in existing programs, 91–­92; PSH model, 94–­95, 96; public housing units, 31, 39, 63–­64, 67–­68, 80; Rose Hill goal of, 100, 101, 103, 106, 107–­108, 110–­111. See also U.S. housing policies Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies (Kingdon), 127–­128 Ahrens, Lois, 50 Aid to Families with Dependent Children, 71 American Dream, 69 American Recovery and Reinvestment Act (2009), 70 Anderson, The (services-­light long-­term housing), 2–­3, 25–­28, 37–­38, 39; cost of rehabilitation of, 82; eligibility requirements, 31–­32, 112, 117; goals of, 147 Anderson residents’ interviews, 9, 25, 28–­40, 112–­121; communication and education issues, 116–­117; criticism/ change suggestions, 105–­106; economic stability, 34–­35; employment challenges, 33, 34–­35, 36; empowerment/ self-­efficacy, 35–­37; housing stability, 28–­32; independence balanced with case management, 115–­116; mental health/psychological well-­being, 32–­33; moving out, 119; research methods, 147–­149; rules and requirements, 116; safety, 39–­40, 119; social support/ community involvement, 37–­38; stability, 28–­32, 34, 39, 147–­148, 149; support services, 115–­116, 117; survivor involvement with program design, 119–­120; tenant support coordinator, 112–­114, 116, 118

anxiety, 18 Arnold, Gretchen, 49 Baker, Charlene, 21 barriers to escaping abuse, 5–­6, 19–­21, 133–­134 Battered Wives (Martin), 45 Beeble, Marisa, 63 block grant funding, 48, 72 Burawoy, Michael, 143 Bybee, Deborah, 20, 63 Campbell, Andrea, 52 care work, 70 Casa Myrna Vazquez (Boston), 46 cash assistance policy (welfare/TANF), 21, 34, 61, 69–­72; Family Violence Option, 72–­76 Cell 16 (Boston women’s liberation group), 47 child abuse, 44, 48 Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act, 52 children, 18, 30–­31, 52, 56, 107; childcare, 3, 81, 108; custody issues, 90, 95, 130, 139; impact of IPV on, 19, 35; scattered-­ site housing, 87–­88; services offered for, 47, 87–­88, 90, 97, 114–­115, 137 Chiswick Women’s Aid, 45, 54 Cloward, Richard, 52 coercive control theory, 6, 14–­15, 16 communication issues, 116–­117 Community Development Block Grant funding, 48 community involvement: among survivors, 120; Anderson residents’ interviews, 37–­38; Rose Hill development focus groups, 107, 108 Comprehensive Employment and Training Act, 48 Congress, 52, 65, 66, 73, 82 consent, 16 control, 14 Cook, Sarah, 21 Corporation for Supportive Housing (CSH), 94–­95, 96

169

1 7 0 I ndex

counseling, 101–­102, 108, 115, 118 crime rates, 65 depression, 18–­19, 20, 32 disability insurance/funding, 69, 90, 130, 139; Rose Hill residents, 96, 98–­99, 106, 112 disclosure of IPV history, 74–­75, 83–­84, 91 discrimination against IPV survivors, 20–­21, 65, 67, 76, 90–­91 District Alliance for Safe Housing (DASH, D.C.), 89, 91–­92, 126, 140 domestic violence. See intimate partner violence (IPV) domestic violence, emergence as public issue, 43–­46, 50–­53, 128 Domestic Violence Housing First program (Washington state), 88, 92 domestic violence organizations: coalitions of, 49–­50, 58, 132; housing development knowledge in, 135–­136; size of, 125–­127 domestic violence shelter system, organizational history, 43–­59; emergency shelters establishment, 6–­7, 45–­47, 58–­59, 128; funding, 46, 48–­53; grassroots feminist organizing, 43–­44, 45–­53, 58–­59, 96, 128; homelessness assistance, 44, 55; missions of early shelters, 45–­46, 49–­50; professionalization and institutionalization, 43–­44, 47–­53; support services offered, 47–­48, 50, 54, 58; transitional housing establishment, 7, 43–­44, 53–­54, 55–­57. See also emergency shelters; long-­term housing; permanent housing; permanent supportive housing (PSH); transitional housing Earned Income Tax Credit (EITC) program, 69 economic abuse, 6, 17, 19, 60, 68–­69 economic self-­sufficiency. See self-­sufficiency economic stability. See stability education, 30, 34, 35–­36, 116–­117 eligibility requirements: Anderson, 31–­32, 112, 117; cash assistance, 70–­71, 72; disability, 90, 130, 139; homeless-­targeted services, 83, 87; IPV as category in, 75–­76, 83, 141; rental assistance, 63–­64, 66; Rose Hill, 106, 107, 112; scattered-­site housing, 87, 88–­89; unemployment benefits, 70 emergency shelters, 20, 21, 22–­23, 43–­53, 134; administration of, 43–­44, 45–­46, 50–­53; barriers to leaving, 128; coalitions of, 49–­50, 58, 132; cost of, 87; definition, 2; establishment of, 6–­7, 45–­47, 58–­59, 128; funding for, 46, 48, 50–­53, 57, 58, 79; length of stay in, 7, 93, 139; New

Destiny, 26; number of people served by, 58; overcapacity of, 80–­81; present conditions of, 7, 57–­58; Prudence Crandall Center, 97; regulations in, 100; vs. scattered-­site housing, 86; services offered, 47–­48; stay length in, 3, 7, 47, 48, 58, 93, 139; survivor involvement, 120. See also domestic violence shelter system, organizational history employment challenges, 56; Anderson residents’ interviews, 33, 34–­35, 36; sabotage by abusers, 17, 19; unemployment benefits, 69, 70 empowerment, 35–­37; PSH model, 94, 95, 96 Empowerment Project (DASH), 89, 91–­92 England (United Kingdom), 45, 54 eviction, 65, 89, 137–­138 Family and Youth Services Bureau, 58 Family Violence Option (FVO), 73–­76 Family Violence Prevention Services Act (FVPSA, 1984), 52, 53, 58 Family Violence Program, 48 feminist movement, 15; grassroots organizing of domestic shelter system by, 43–­44, 45–­53, 58–­59, 96, 128 Ferraro, Kathleen, 50 Ferree, Myra, 49, 51 financial abuse, 6, 17, 19, 60, 68–­69 financial stability. See stability food stamps, 31, 34, 71, 72 Freinkel, Susan, 49 funding, 48–­53; block grant, 48, 72; cash assistance, 72; disability diagnosis, 69, 90, 96, 98–­99, 106, 112, 130, 139; emergency shelters, 46, 48, 50–­53, 57, 58, 79; feminists believing government responsible for, 51–­53, 60, 136–­137; housing development, 135–­136; measurement of goals, 103–­104; New Destiny, 28, 135; permanent housing, 79–­80, 82; Prudence Crandall Center, 96; public housing, 64–­66; Rose Hill, 98–­99; scattered-­site housing, 87; service-­ enriched housing, 137–­138; services-­ light housing, 8, 28, 79, 118; transitional housing, 128 FVO (Family Violence Option), 73–­76 gender: coercive control theory, 14–­15; labor market participation, 69–­70; policy terminology, 49 gentrification, 31 grassroots feminist organizing, 43–­44, 45–­53, 58–­59, 96, 128 Hagen, Jan, 75 harassment, 16

I ndex 1 7 1

health issues related to IPV, 18, 72–­73. See also mental health issues related to IPV Hess, Beth, 49, 51 HHS (Department of Health and Human Services), 48, 58 Home Free program (Volunteers of America scattered-­site model), 86, 87, 140 Homeless Emergency Assistance and Rapid Transition to Housing (HEARTH) Act, 83, 139 homeless/homelessness, 21–­22; definition, 83; families, 128, 139; funding, 83, 90; permanent housing, 58–­59; political dimension of, 138–­140; PSH model, 93, 94, 138–­139; responses to, 44, 55; services targeting, 83, 87; shelter systems, 57–­58; stereotypes, 99; strategies for housing, 84–­85; transitional housing, 56–­57 HOPE VI housing revitalization program, 64 Housing and Community Development Act (1974), 66 Housing and Urban Development (HUD) Department, 48, 56–­57, 63–­64, 139; fair market rent determination by, 62, 66; funding by, 83, 86, 98 housing development and operation, 126–­127, 134–­140 housing first approach, 5, 8, 56, 85, 86–­88, 94 Housing Link Resource Center, 26 Housing Opportunity Act (1996), 65 housing policy. See U.S. housing policies Housing Resource Center (DASH), 91–­92, 126 housing search, 63 housing set-­asides, 141 housing stability. See stability, housing housing wage, 62 identity-­based needs, 131 immigrant abuse, 17–­18, 60 income spent on housing, 61–­62, 63, 64, 66, 91 independence, 29, 95, 96; balanced with case management, 112, 115–­116; Rose Hill residents, 100–­101, 103, 106. See also self-­sufficiency innovations in place, 80, 84, 85, 91–­92, 95 intersectionality, 21 intimate partner violence (IPV): category for eligibility requirements, 75–­76, 83, 141; definition, 13; emergency status, 54; impact of, 6, 18–­23, 72–­73. See also abusive relationships; mental health issues related to IPV intimate partner violence (IPV) survivors, 1; definition, 13; diversity of, 140;

interview methods, 25–­26, 143–­150; needs of, 4–­5, 55–­56, 61, 80; participation in policy and program design by, 4, 15, 110, 119–­120. See also Anderson residents’ interviews; Rose Hill development focus groups intimidation, 14, 16 IPV. See intimate partner violence (IPV) isolation, 14, 17–­18, 19, 20, 37 Katzenstein, Mary, 49 Kendrick, Karen, 50–­51 Kingdon, John, 127–­128, 129, 131 labor market participation, 69–­70, 72 landlord education, 85, 92 Lapidus, Lenora, 65 Latina community, 46 Law Enforcement Assistance Administration, 48 legal protection for IPV survivors, 129 lesbians, 53 LIHTC (Low Income Housing Tax Credits) program, 66, 67–­68, 79, 135 LINC III (Living In Communities, NYC rental assistance program), 28, 66 Lipsky, Michael, 52, 54 long-­term housing, 7–­8, 43; definition, 2; paths to finding, 22–­23; realization of need for, 5–­6, 55–­57, 79, 80–­82; stay length, 131. See also Anderson, The (services-­light long-­term housing); emergency shelters; permanent housing; permanent supportive housing (PSH); Rose Hill Supportive Housing Program (CT); transitional housing Low Income Housing Tax Credits (LIHTC) program, 66, 67–­68, 79, 135 Martin, Del, 45 Marxism, 46 McKinney-­Vento Homeless Assistance Act (1987), 55, 83 means-­tested programs, 69, 71–­72. See also cash assistance policy (welfare) Medicaid, 71 men, visitor rules about, 47, 65, 100, 109–­110, 119 mental health issues related to IPV, 18–­19, 92, 130; Anderson residents’ interviews, 32–­33; as barrier to escaping abuse, 20; homelessness and, 21–­22; Rose Hill residents, 96, 98–­99; welfare work requirements, 72–­73 mental health services, 101–­102, 108, 115, 118 Morgan, Kimberly, 52 moving: from Anderson, 119; frequency of, 63, 81; from permanent housing,

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moving (continued) 118–­119; from Rose Hill, 102–­103, 106, 109, 110–­111. See also stay length multiple streams model, 127–­128, 129 Murray, Patti, 73 Muskie School of Public Service, 57 National Center on Child Abuse and Neglect, 48 National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV), 50, 53, 58 National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey, 15 National Low Income Housing Coalition, 62 National Network to End Domestic Violence (NNEDV), 50, 58, 136 New Destiny Housing (NYC nonprofit), 25, 79, 126, 135–­136, 147–­149; funding, 28, 135; mission of, 26; as services-­light model, 8, 90–­91, 137–­138 New Hope for Women (Rockland, Maine), 88–­89 New York City, 57–­58 New York City Department of Homeless Services, 58 New York City Housing Authority, 31 New York Police Department, 133 nonprofit organizations, 52 Norris, Fran, 21 Office on Domestic Violence (HHS), 48, 58 Office on Violence Against Women, 57 Out of Reach (National Low Income Housing Coalition report), 62 Owens-­Manley, Judith, 75 patriarchy, 15 permanent housing, 58–­59, 100–­101, 131; definition, 2; funding, 79–­80, 82. See also emergency shelters; long-­term housing; transitional housing permanent supportive housing (PSH), 5, 8, 92, 93–­104, 141; adaptations of, 80, 85–­86, 95–­96; assessment of, 93–­94, 103–­104, 111; cost-­effectiveness of, 130; CSH principles of, 94–­95, 96; funding for, 79–­80; homelessness, 93, 94, 138–­139; safety in, 94, 95, 96, 119. See also Anderson, The (services-­light long-­term housing); Rose Hill Supportive Housing Program (CT); support services Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act (PRWORA, 1996), 71–­72 physical abuse, 6, 16 Piven, Frances Fox, 52 Pleck, Elizabeth, 44–­45

police response to domestic violence, 133 policymaking, 1–­2, 9, 26, 48–­50, 125–­132; multiple streams model, 127–­128, 129 Portland, Oregon, 86 post-­traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), 18–­19 power, 14–­15, 49 private housing market, 61, 64, 66, 67–­68, 85; survivor discrimination in, 91–­92 pro-­choice movement, 52 project-­based service model, 85, 86, 89–­91, 94. See also Anderson, The (services-­ light long-­term housing); permanent supportive housing (PSH); Rose Hill Supportive Housing Program (CT) Prudence Crandall Center (CT), 90, 93, 96; emergency shelter, 97; philosophy of, 99–­100, 106; property management by, 100–­101; Rose Hill assessment, 103–­104; Rose Hill development, 106, 143–­147; Rose Hill goals and services, 99–­103, 106; support services by, 96–­97, 99–­103, 126; women-­led advocacy in, 101–­102 PSH. See permanent supportive housing (PSH) psychological abuse, 6, 16, 17 public funding. See funding public housing, 56, 64–­66, 85, 129 public housing authorities (PHAs), 64, 66 public housing units, 31, 39, 63–­64, 67–­68, 80 race, 21, 63, 75, 128, 131 rapid rehousing approach, 8, 85, 140 referrals, 114, 115 Reinelt, Claire, 49, 53 rental assistance programs, 26, 28, 62, 66–­67, 86; eligibility for, 63–­64, 66. See also Section 8 vouchers rent/renting, 32, 56, 101, 136; documentation required for, 63; eviction, 65, 89, 137–­138; fair market determination of, 62, 66; income spent on, 61–­62, 63, 64, 66, 91. See also Section 8 vouchers research and policy, 9, 125–­132; multiple streams model, 127–­128, 129; organizations’ coordination and missions, 125–­127 research methods, 25–­26, 143–­150 retirement, 69 return to abusers, 20, 53, 97, 101, 106, 141 Roberts, Albert, 53–­54, 56 Rodriguez, Noelie, 50–­51 Rose Hill development focus groups, 9, 105, 106–­112, 121; affordable housing, 100, 101, 103, 106, 107–­108, 110–­111; research methods, 143–­147; rules/requirements, 109–­110, 110–­111, 117; safety, 100, 101, 103, 106, 107, 110–­111, 119; stay length, 109,

I ndex 1 7 3

110–­111, 117, 118–­119; support services, 106, 108, 110–­111, 117–­118; survivor involvement with program design, 110, 119–­120; survivor priorities vs. administrative goals in, 110–­112 Rose Hill Supportive Housing Program (CT), 90, 93, 96–­104; administration of, 110–­112; assessment of model, 103–­104; building location/description, 97–­98; cost of rehabilitation of, 82; disability diagnosis, 96, 98–­99, 106, 112; eligibility requirements, 106, 107, 112; funding for, 98–­99; program goals and services, 99–­103, 106; property management, 100–­101; staff, 100, 101–­102 rules/requirements: about visitors, 47, 65, 100, 109–­110, 119; at Anderson, 39, 116; in emergency shelters, 100; at Rose Hill, 109–­110, 110–­111, 117; of support services, 108–­109, 111, 117–­118 rural communities, 86 safety, 57; Anderson residents, 39–­40, 119; as barrier to escaping abuse, 20; children and, 31; as concession to affordable housing, 62–­63; emergency shelters, 22–­23; PSH model, 94, 95, 96, 119; public housing, 31, 65; Rose Hill residents, 100, 101, 103, 106, 107, 110–­111, 119; scattered-­ site housing, 86; unemployment and, 70 “safety net” inadequacy, 59, 69–­76; means-­ tested programs, 71–­72 Salamon, Lester, 52, 53 same-­sex relationships, 15, 53, 131 scattered-­site housing, 85, 86–­89, 91, 94 Schechter, Susan, 45 screening for IPV, 73–­75 second-­stage housing, 54 Section 8 vouchers, 28, 65, 66–­67, 68, 89; PSH model, 95; survivors’ loss of, 129 self-­defense violence, 15 self-­sufficiency, 25, 36, 63, 103–­104, 130, 147; cash assistance and, 61; diverse paths to, 36, 57; economic abuse, 17; Family Violence Option, 73; PSH and, 8; scattered-­site housing, 88–­89 services-­light housing, 25–­40; challenges of, 112; funding for, 8, 28, 79, 118; New Destiny, 8, 90–­91, 137–­138; on-­and off-­site services, 118; philosophy of, 117; tenant support coordinator position in, 112–­114, 116, 118. See also Anderson, The (services-­light long-­term housing); support services sexual abuse, 6, 16 Shelter+Care funding, 90 shelter limits on number of times entered, 53–­54

shelter system. See domestic violence shelter system, organizational history; emergency shelters Smith, Steven Rathgeb, 49, 52, 53, 54 social insurance programs, 69–­70 Social Security Administration, 48, 69 stability: of children, 30, 56; economic, 34–­35, 54, 56; measuring, 130; mental health issues as barrier to, 19–­20. See also self-­sufficiency stability, housing, 4, 6, 14, 82; Anderson residents’ interviews, 28–­32, 34, 39, 147–­148, 149; Home Free program, 87–­88; housing first approach, 85, 87–­88; instability, 21–­23; project-­based services, 90–­91; PSH, 8, 79, 94–­95, 96, 109; transitional housing, 54 Staggenborg, Suzanne, 52 stalking, 15, 16, 65 Stark, Evan, 14 State of the Nation’s Housing (Harvard University Joint Center for Housing Studies report), 62–­63 stay length: in emergency shelters, 3, 7, 47, 48, 58, 93, 139; long-­term housing developed in response to, 79; in permanent and long-­term housing, 131; Rose Hill, 109, 110–­111, 117, 118–­119. See also moving Stewart B. McKinney-­Vento Homeless Assistance Act (1987), 55, 83 Sullivan, Cris, 20, 63 Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) (food stamps), 71, 72 supportive housing. See permanent supportive housing (PSH) Supportive Housing Program (HUD), 56–­57, 98 support services, 7; at Anderson, 115–­116, 117; for children, 47, 87–­88, 90, 97, 114–­115, 137; in emergency shelters, 47–­48; emergency vs. bureaucratic, 54; funding for, 58, 79–­80; independence vs. case management, 112, 115–­116; logistical vs. social, 108, 117–­118; mental health, 101–­102, 108, 115, 118; offered by shelters, 47–­48, 50, 54, 58; on-­ and off-­site, 90, 112–­115, 118, 137–­138; project-­based housing, 89–­91; by Prudence Crandall Center, 96–­97, 99–­103, 126; public housing, 64; requirements of, 108–­109, 111, 117–­118; Rose Hill, 99–­103, 106, 108, 110–­111, 117–­118; scattered-­site housing, 87, 88, 89; services dimension of housing operation, 134, 136–­137; targeting homeless, 83, 87; tenant support vs. building management, 112, 116–­117; trauma-­informed, 32, 96, 100, 118, 130.

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support services (continued) See also permanent supportive housing (PSH); services-­light housing systems of oppression, 21 tax-­based programs, 69–­70; LIHTC program, 66, 67–­68, 79, 135 Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF), 28, 61, 71–­72, 73 tenant support coordinator position (Anderson), 112–­114, 116, 118 third-­stage housing, 54 transitional housing, 23, 53–­57, 128, 131; administration of, 43–­44; definition, 2; establishment of, 7, 43–­44, 53–­54, 55–­57; long-­term housing developed in response to, 79; New Destiny, 26; number of people served by, 58; Prudence Crandall Center, 97; regulations in, 100; Rose Hill, 101; scattered-­site, 88–­89. See also domestic violence shelter system, organizational history; emergency shelters; long-­term housing; permanent housing Transition House (Boston), 45 trauma-­informed services, 32, 96, 100, 118, 130 unemployment benefits, 69–­70 unobtrusive mobilization, 49 U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), 15, 16 U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS), 48, 58 U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, 48

U.S. Department of Justice, 53 U.S. housing policies, 60–­68; LIHTC program, 66, 67–­68, 79, 135; limited affordable housing units, 63–­64; public housing, 64–­66; rental assistance programs, 26, 28, 62, 63–­64, 66–­67, 86 U.S. income support policies, 60–­61, 68–­76; barriers to access, 69; cash assistance policy, 21, 34, 61, 69–­72, 72–­76; Family Violence Option, 72–­76; means-­tested programs, 69, 71–­72; social insurance programs, 69–­70; tax-­based programs, 66, 67–­68, 69–­70, 79, 135 Violence Against Women Act (VAWA), 57, 65–­66, 76, 82, 129 visitors, rules about, 47, 65, 100, 109–­110, 119 volunteering, 48, 50 Volunteers of America, 86, 140 Walker, Lenore, 45 Warrior, Betsy, 46–­47, 51 Washington State Coalition Against Domestic Violence, 88 welfare, 21, 34, 61, 69–­72; Family Violence Option, 72–­76 welfare caseworkers, 74, 75 Wellstone, Paul, 73 Women Aware (New Jersey), 57, 90–­91, 93, 126–­127 women-­led advocacy, 99–­100, 101–­102. See also feminist movement Women’s Advocates (St. Paul), 45, 46, 47 Women’s Center South (Pittsburgh), 46 Working on Wife Abuse (Warrior), 47

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

HILARY BOTEIN (PhD, Columbia University) is an associate professor at

the School of Public Affairs, Baruch College, City University of New York, where her research and teaching focus on the social politics of housing and community development, and the housing needs of vulnerable populations. Prior to her academic career, Hilary worked as a legal services lawyer and as a policy analyst and manager in nonprofit and government settings for more than fifteen years. ANDREA HETLING (PhD, University of Maryland, College Park) is an as-

sociate professor at the Edward J. Bloustein School of Planning and Public Policy at Rutgers University–­New Brunswick. Andrea’s research focuses on the implementation and efficacy of U.S. social welfare policies, particularly their impact on the economic well-­being of vulnerable populations including survivors of intimate partner violence. Before getting her PhD, Andrea worked as a program administrator at a domestic violence agency, and focused on advocacy and development issues. CAROL CORDEN (PhD, University of Chicago), who authored the epi-

logue, is the executive director of New Destiny Housing in New York City. New Destiny is a leading agency in advocating for and providing long-­term housing options for survivors of intimate partner violence who are at risk of homelessness. Since Carol became executive director in 1996, the organization has developed twelve buildings and helped thousands of families find safe apartments. Before joining New Destiny, Carol’s work on the issue of housing spanned the private, public, and nonprofit sectors.