When we think of people who are victims of intimate partner violence, there tends to be a specific image that comes to mind: a white, cisgender, heterosexual woman, relatively young, middle-class, and able-bodied. While it may not come as a surprise to most that people who fall outside of this categorization can, in fact, experience intimate partner violence, people generally fail to see the systematic barriers that can keep marginalized victims from accessing the same resources and obtaining the same help as victims who are not otherwise marginalized.
Conversation around intimate partner violence has become centered around the voices of otherwise privileged people - the experiences of women of color, trans women, disabled women, immigrant women, low-income women, etc. are often erased in favor of highlighting narratives that might get more public attention and sympathy. In her work “Mapping the Margins”, Kimberle Crenshaw states the problematicism with this approach: “violence that many women experience is often shaped by other dimensions of their identities, such as race and class.” (Crenshaw, 1242). The physical, sexual, and emotional trauma that these people endure is just as bad as that of white/cis/hetero/etc women, but these people often do not have access to the same resources - making it harder to leave their living nightmare.
In her 2002 work “Woman-To-Woman Sexual Violence”, Lori Girschick details the stories of several women-loving women and their experiences of violence with female partners. Though the narratives told in this work are still mainly those of white, cisgender, middle-class women, it does offer the important perspective of queer women who are victims of intimate partner violence. Many queer women struggle with identifying and escaping an abusive relationship with female partners because many are never educated on queer relationships or even told that women can also be perpetrators - they have no idea what red flags to look for. Additionally, resources for queer women are extremely limited, both in terms of educational resources and safe places to go to escape abuse. Even when just one layer of privilege is stripped, resources and representation become exponentially harder to find.
Imagine, then, that you’re also financially dependent on your abusive partner - they pay for most or all of your food and clothes, they pay for the couch you’re crashing on, and, in some cases, they pay for your medical or legal transition. Imagine that, due to widespread prejudice, you can’t get a job to support yourself no matter how hard you try. Imagine facing the decision of enduring abuse, going into sex work (which can be extremely dangerous), or starving to death; and imagine that, despite all that you’re going through, many shelters won’t let you in, your family won’t support you, and police would likely make the problem worse.
This is the reality for many trans people, especially transfeminine people of color. On average, trans people already face increased rates of homelessness, employment discrimination, incarceration, and rejection from friends, family, even doctors. When in situations of intimate partner violence, many trans people have nowhere to go - resources that are available to other victims are often not trans-friendly, and even those that are often can’t provide the same monetary assistance to help with hormones, surgeries, name changes, and other gender-affirming but costly processes.
Let’s go another step further: imagine you’re in a new and completely unfamiliar environment. You don’t speak the same language as anyone around you, and very few places in your area can offer resources in a language you can understand. If you call the police when violence occurs, there is a strong chance you will be abused further by an officer or another official, and most likely sent back to an even worse environment that you risked life and limb to escape.
This is the experience of many immigrant women who experience intimate partner violence in the US. In “Mapping the Margins”, Crenshaw speaks to the lives of immigrant women facing violence, noting that “When faced with the choice between protection from their batterers and protection against deportation, many immigrant women chose the latter.” (Crenshaw, 1247). For many, speaking up or seeking help when in situations of violence leads to deportation, especially if their partner is a US citizen or permanent resident who can use their immigration status to intimidate them into silence. Moreover, access to resources becomes limited due to language barriers - chances are dicey on whether resources are available in different languages, and if your partner is more proficient in English, they can choose to withhold helpful information from you.
These examples are still only examining oppression one layer at a time - imagine what happens when multiple layers stack up. What happens if you’re a queer, immigrant, trans woman of color? What if you’re disabled on top of that, or elderly - what if you lay at any given intersection of identities that makes relief and support all but unreachable?
All of these, and more, are reasons why we should approach issues of violence, especially those of intimate partner violence, with a wider lens that acknowledges the added difficulties of the experiences of marginalized victims. Otherwise privileged people can be victims of intimate partner violence, of course - we see stories like this regularly circulating on social media and the news - but they have a better chance of getting help and living to tell their stories in an individual and humanizing way, rather than being remembered only as a statistic.
Works Cited
Crenshaw, Kimberle. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review, vol. 43, no. 6, 1991, pp. 1241–1299., doi:10.2307/1229039.
Girshick, Lori B. Woman-to-Woman Sexual Violence: Does She Call It Rape? Northeastern University Press, 2002.
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