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The cases of Latoya Crabbe and Keisha Golden are renewing attention on the barriers Black women survivors of domestic violence face.

Within just weeks of each other, two separate Black women made headlines for finally coming home after spending time behind bars for killing the men they say they were trying to survive.

Latoya Crabbe, a mother in Manassas, Va., spent months behind bars after fatally shooting her estranged husband during an encounter she maintains was in self-defense, while Keisha Golden, a mother in Chicago, was recently released after serving time for fatally stabbing her boyfriend during an attack while she was eight months pregnant.

On Aug. 14, Crabbe was released from jail after prosecutors dropped the murder charge against her, citing newly uncovered evidence, including a recording of the encounter, that supported her claim of self-defense, according to NBC Washington. In the case of Golden, as theGrio previously reported, she avoided returning to prison on Aug. 24 after pleading guilty to involuntary manslaughter and receiving two years of probation.

While their cases unfolded differently and in different states, for advocates who work with Black survivors of domestic violence, the circumstances aren’t just similar but deeply familiar. Crabbe and Golden’s stories are bringing renewed attention to how Black women experiencing domestic violence can face extreme barriers when they seek help or defend themselves, how they can become criminalized in the process and how difficult it can be for the legal system to account for the violence that came before.

“It’s very common,” Dr. Pamela Tate, the executive director of Black Women Revolt Against Domestic Violence, told theGrio by phone on Wednesday of predicaments like Crabbe and Golden’s. “And of course, because things are underreported, we don’t necessarily have numbers, but we see clients all the time who are.”

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 45.1% of non-Hispanic Black women have experienced sexual violence, physical violence, or stalking by an intimate partner in their lifetime. 

Based in San Francisco, Tate, who has more than 18 years of experience in domestic violence advocacy, founded Black Women Revolt Against Domestic Violence in 2021 alongside co-founders Geoffrea Morris, Beverly Upton, and Lyn-Tise Jones. The organization helps survivors navigate domestic violence through safety planning and case management, shelter and housing assistance, education and outreach, and policy advocacy.

In her line of work, Tate has seen some of everything, including the many barriers Black women can be up against, from racial stereotypes that influence who authorities see as a victim to signs of physical injury that may not present as quickly or visibly on darker skin.

Tate recalled a recent case in which a survivor bit her abuser in the middle of a violent encounter. She wound up arrested because while the bite marks were visible, the fact that he had been choking her prior was not as apparent. Hours later, when her neck started turning blue and red and bruising, authorities realized she had been telling the truth. What they hadn’t accounted for was how bruising can sometimes appear later or be more difficult to detect on melanated skin.

“It’s just important to put on police officers’ purview that everybody does not respond to physical assault in the same manner,” she explained.

Tate said that applies to emotional responses just as much as physical ones.

“When the police get on the scene, usually we’re [meaning women] upset and foaming at the mouth and feel, you know, degraded and disrespected and scared,” Tate described. “And you know, they’re [meaning the man] calm, cool, and collected, and manipulative, and can manipulate the police into believing. ‘Well, you know, look at her; she’s just crazy, right?’”

One aspect of Golden’s case in particular that Tate fears is going underexplored is the prevalence of domestic violence against pregnant women, a particularly vulnerable time in a woman’s life.

“I just think the public is not aware at how high domestic violence occurrences are for pregnant women, and that is one of the most vulnerable times in a woman’s life,” she said.

A study published by the National Library of Medicine of pregnancy-associated homicides in 2020 found that 55% of the victims were non-Hispanic Black women, despite Black women representing a much smaller share of women giving birth in the U.S.

Tate noted there’s also often a gap in understanding between the single incident authorities or a jury sees and the years of violence a survivor may have experienced before it.

“They don’t understand why people have stayed instead of just leaving. They don’t understand how did you get to this point where you just killed somebody, and it’s like it wasn’t that simple,” she said.

She continued, “It might have been 15 years of being terrified that they are going to kill me, and the opportunity came where they were pointing a gun at me, and we struggled for the gun, and they dropped it. I picked it up, and they lunged, and I shot. That’s not premeditated.”

She added, “Laws are not written to for that gray area. It’s very cut and dry.”

What’s also not always taken into account is how release from prison isn’t necessarily the end of the punishment. Crabbe, while not a felon, faces the trauma of her predicament and having to rebuild her life after major disruption and turmoil. Meanwhile, Golden faces the lasting consequences of a felony conviction, including having to disclose it when seeking employment. Tate said criminalization itself can destabilize a survivor’s entire life even without a conviction. There can be a crescendo of consequences, one after another, when a victim gets arrested, whether the arrest stemmed from a misunderstanding or not.

“If you’re AWOL for work you can lose a job. If you are not there to pay your rent, you can get evicted. You can have licensing problems if you’re a teacher. You’re credentialed. You have to be screened,” Tate expressed.

Then there’s the stigma from those wondering why she didn’t simply leave. All of those barriers can compound with scarce resources in many cities and towns for survivors who do seek help.

“There are not enough shelters. There are not enough shelter beds, and it’s crazy because most people don’t even know you can have access to a shelter, but when you need it, more times than not, there’s not a bed available,” Tate said.

The advocate explained that in San Francisco, there are just under 80 beds designated for emergency domestic violence cases. More often than not, women seeking domestic violence shelter bring children with them, who also need beds, shrinking the number of available spaces even further.

Still, help is out there, and Tate stressed that those who need it should seek it. Even if a survivor simply just wants to talk, she recommends contacting a crisis hotline or domestic violence organization and beginning to document what is happening, creating a record that can be referred back to later should authorities become involved.

Advocates understand that seeking help itself can be terrifying for many. Some survivors fear it could lead to separation from their families, their children being taken away, their communities finding out or other consequences. Others are conflicted about leaving because they genuinely love their partner despite the violence and toxicity.

“Leaving doesn’t mean that you no longer love this person because people don’t stop loving the person causing them harm. They just want the bad behavior to stop,” Tate noted. “Recognize those are two separate things, and both things can be true at the same time.”

Reducing those barriers will require more resources, stronger legislation and legal systems that better understand the realities survivors face. For Tate, though, none of those changes can happen without greater awareness and more willingness to talk openly about domestic violence in the first place.

For Tate, that need is also personal. A friend of hers was murdered by her husband, an experience that she says led Tate to enter domestic violence advocacy full-time.

“That’s what really made me kind of start thinking, what did I miss? I just was like, how do we get from here to there?” she said. “There needs to be a lot more conversations around domestic violence and how it’s interpreted in the law. But most people who are working in the law don’t even understand what survivors have dealt with.”

It’s also why she hopes women like Crabbe and Golden, both of whom she genuinely wishes well on their paths forward, continue telling their stories.

“I hope that they know that their story is important and that they share it because that is another way that we can get things changed,” she said. “When people don’t know, they just assume.”

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, you can contact the National Hotline for Domestic Violence for help and to learn about resources by calling 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or text “BEGIN” to 88788. For culturaly component care you can reach out to Ujima and Black Women Revolt Against Domestic Violence.