Sept. 23, 2009
It isn’t big enough. That’s what I think of the venue for the 10th annual Domestic Violence conference tomorrow (8 a.m. to 4 p.m. at Hodel’s, cost $35).
I came to that conclusion after watching the documentary that will be screened at the conference titled “Sin by Silence.”
Everyone should see this film.
And afterward, we need to have people on hand like Nada Yorke, Glenda Love, Judy Dulcich, Brenda Clubine and others who can tell us how we can help.
Because when you see this movie, you’ll want to know what you can do.
The film looks at the cases of several women imprisoned at Corona for killing their abusive husbands.
Clubine, until until about a year ago, was among those inmates. She will be the featured speaker at the conference.
The film focuses on a group she started that is dedicated to stopping the cycle of violence that trapped her and her fellow inmates.
The group is called Convicted Women Against Abuse (CWAA). It’s the only inmate-run support group of its kind and was largely responsible for changing state law in 1992 and again 2002 so that courts could consider a woman’s previous abuse in cases where she was accused of violence against her partner.
Clubine killed her husband one night during one of his many rages when she smashed a bottle over his head. In 1986 she was sentenced to 15 years to life. She got out in 2008.
Her story is sadly similar to those of the other women in the film, one of them from Bakersfield — Glenda Crosley.
None of the women in the hour-long film claims to be innocent.
They all wanted to deliver the message out that silence kills, said director/producer Olivia Klaus.
“That’s the core of this problem,” said Klaus, who spent eight years attending CWAA meetings in Corona getting to know the women. “We need to create an environment where victims of domestic violence feel comfortable asking for help. It could save lives.”
That’s where people like Yorke, past president of the Domestic Violence Advisory Council; Love, the current president; Dulcich, a Kern County Superior Court Judge; and others will come in handy at the conference. They can tell us what resources are available, what’s needed and how regular people can get involved and make a difference.
This is an epidemic that needs attention, much more than we’ve given it so far.
Already this year, we’ve had 16 domestic violence fatalities — according to the advisory council, a record-breaking year.
If you think domestic violence can’t happen in your world, you’re wrong.
I thought the same thing, as did Klaus, and we were both shocked when we discovered it lurking among our close circle of friends and colleagues.
The worst part is now knowing how to help, even where to go to get information about shelters, legal help, restraining orders, financial aid and so on.
That’s where this conference comes in. Think of it like CPR training, only you’re arming yourself with knowledge.
“While I was being abused,” Clubine told me, “if someone had just said ‘I’ll be there for you,’ I wouldn’t have gotten to the point where I felt like I had to protect my life that night.
“If people had been there for any of us, we wouldn’t be here (in prison).”
Opinions expressed in this column are those of Lois Henry, not The Bakersfield Californian. Her column appears Wednesdays and Sundays. Comment at people.bakersfield.com/home/Blog/noholdsbarred, call her at 395-7373 or e-mail lhenry@bakersfield.com
BAKERSFIELD WOMAN'S STORY
Glenda Crosley killed her husband. Of that, there’s no doubt.
She smashed him between the grill of her car and the trunk of his in a parking lot at Ming Avenue and Real Road on a hot August night in 1986.
During Crosley’s two notorious trials, the community learned how much abuse she suffered at the hands of Sam, her husband of 24 years.
Testimony by her three daughters, a family friend and even Sam Crosley’s own mother was chilling.
They all believed Glenda, not Sam, would wind up dead.
The violence was constant.
“It wasn’t just once a week,” said daughter Stacy Crosley, now 43. “It was every single day.”
And it wasn’t just Glenda.
“The first time I remember him hitting me, I was probably 6 years old,” Stacy told me. Her sisters suffered the same way.
He hit with hands and fists and threatened his family with anything handy — golf clubs, tire irons, broom sticks.
And, yeah, the cops were called numerous times.
“It was the 1970s and ‘80s,” Stacy said. “If no one hit anyone in front of the cops, they didn’t make any arrests. They just got things settled and left.”
Stacy remembered her mother trying to leave several times and her dad coming into the apartment, ransacking rooms and even taking the pink slip to Glenda’s car to maintain some kind — any kind — of control.
The Crosley’s oldest daughter left as soon as she could. Stacy, the middle child, got into drugs, ran away and raised hell. The youngest was in her senior year of high school the night of their father’s death.
Stacy, with a grown son of her own now and a lifetime of experience, still blames herself for the death.
“When I was 11 or 12, I remember plotting ways to kill my dad,” she says matter of factly. “If I’d succeeded, this never would have happened.”
Then when she was 17 and about to be released from a group home in Fresno, a judge said she couldn’t go home unless both parents were living together.
Glenda had again left Sam and was trying to make it on her own, but went back to bring Stacy home.
“In a way, it was my fault.”
Glenda was found guilty in 1988 of second-degree murder.
Despite new laws that allow courts to consider a woman’s previous abuse in such cases, Glenda remains in prison.
The irony is that Glenda falls through the cracks because she was allowed to present a “battered wife syndrome” defense, the first time it was ever used in a California courtroom.
But it didn’t sway the jury.
Glenda and Sam were separated at the time. They had both gone to a church-sponsored singles gathering that night and afterward to a pizza parlor. Sam told people she was following him and others testified she wasn’t invited to the pizza party.
In the parking lot, Sam leaned into Glenda’s car, they had words and witnesses say she rammed him from behind as he was walking away. He got up as she drove away through the lot.
He went to the back of his car and opened the trunk. Glenda came back through the lot, smashed into him and drove away until her car broke down.
“It took me a lot of years to come to grips with everything,” Stacy said. Particularly how her past reached into her future.
“I wasn’t the victim” in later years, she said. “I was the abuser.”
She was so unnerved by her own actions when she hit her first husband — her son’s father — she left, even giving up custody of her son.
“I knew the cycle was passed down and I didn’t want to run the risk of abusing my son,” she said.
She kept in constant contact with her son, now 18 and now living with her in Bakersfield.
She hasn’t communicated much with her mom over the years, but believes she’s more than paid for her crime.
“She was afraid that night; I know that in my heart,” Stacy said. “She was confused, probably just trying to get out of the parking lot.
“He opened his trunk. That’s where he kept the tire iron, the weapons he threatened her with.
“She didn’t intentionally go after him.”
Glenda’s story is chronicled in the documentary “Sin by Silence,” to be screened today at the domestic violence conference from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. at Hodel’s. Cost is $35
IF YOU NEED HELP
If you or your children are in immediate danger, call 911.
You can also get help and services quickly if you are working with Kern County Mental Health, Department of Human Services, Child Protective Services, Adult Protective services or any of the local nonprofit health services agencies.
Other specific helping agencies include:
Greater Bakersfield Legal Assistance, 615 California Ave.; 325-5943; fax: 325-4482; gbla.org/ez.php?Page =3226.
Alliance Against Family Violence and Sexual Assault Outreach Center, 1921 19th St.; 322-9199; 24-hour hotline: 327-1091; toll- free: 800-273-7713; kernalliance.org.
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