He’s been called part Cormac McCarthy, part Woody Guthrie, and part Public Enemy. Minneapolis hip-hop activist Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre tackles rape culture in his poem “Action.” Listen to his words and ask yourself: Why is it so tempting to stay silent? What obligation does each of us have to speak up? How can male friends open up to one another, support one another, and talk about uncomfortable topics without embarrassment or fear?

Here’s the story behind Guante’s words, as told to NO MORE.

What compelled you to write this piece? Was it personal?

It’s not a true story. Sometimes it’s weird to admit that about a poem, but for this one, I like to be up front about it. I think it’s important that we are able to engage with these issues even when we don’t have a personal connection to them. In the end, we’re all affected by this, even if it’s not an explicit connection, even if we don’t know it, even if there isn’t that “it could be your daughter/sister/mother” stuff attached.

I wrote this piece to dramatize my own struggle with speaking out. The repetition of “part of me” is a play on words—the two characters could definitely represent different elements of one individual. The whole piece is about problematizing that “good people/bad people” binary and shining a light on the overall culture.

How would you describe male friendship?

I don’t know if I could, partly because I think “male” is an intersectional identity, so that question has a ton of other variables in it. For me, personally, friendship has generally been a more unspoken kind of thing. You might love someone, be down to sacrifice for them, be down to support them, et cetera, but you may not necessarily state that explicitly. There’s a stoicism both in the face of adversity and in the face of great love. Maybe a running theme here is “unspoken,” which can relate to both positive things and, like in the poem, very negative things, too.

Like Howard Zinn said, “You can’t be neutral on a moving train.”

What does male silence cause, what does it stop, and what does it perpetuate?

Like Howard Zinn said, “You can’t be neutral on a moving train.” I do think that there are levels to that statement, however, that it isn’t as simple as “all men need to always speak up all the time.” That can be problematic, too.

What obligation do friends have to speak up? Do they have an obligation, does it depend on the friendship, the situation, and so forth?

I think we have to be conscious of identity and privilege here. One of the issues with bystander intervention stuff is that we don’t all have the same levels of safety when it comes to “speaking up.” I don’t think there is any kind of magic formula for how these interactions go—we speak up when and where we can, based on our own identities, the context of the situation, and the relationships present. It’s important to do something, but that “something” might look different in different situations.

What are taboo topics for men?

I don’t think I have anything to add to that conversation beyond what’s already out there: Men tend (and I say “tend” intentionally, because again, “men” is a very broad identity) not to discuss a great deal of things—personal feelings, things that matter, things that might be uncomfortable. What I’ve found, though, is that these taboos are often very surface-level. So things may not come up in casual conversation, but once they’re present, they’re really not that hard to talk about. I think a lot of men welcome these deeper conversations; the problem is just initiating them.

I think a lot of men welcome these deeper conversations; the problem is just initiating them.

In your opinion, is it practical or attainable for men to have this conversation with one another—and what might make these conversations more possible?

Of course. Sometimes we frame that conversation as a very in-the-moment, “speak up and stop a rape from happening” kind of thing. But it’s also about being proactive and bringing conversations about rape culture and toxic masculinity into spaces where it isn’t already present, even if there isn’t a super specific catalyst for it.

What role can art and poetry play in this dialogue?

Supplementary. I try to be very careful about acknowledging both the power and limitations of art. I think art can frame arguments, make abstract ideas come to life, and create space for people to communicate. And all of that stuff is vital to a movement, particularly a movement around dismantling rape culture. But none of that stuff is enough, on its own. We also need to be organizing: changing policies, changing institutions. It takes an intentional, concerted effort.

Guante is a hip-hop artist, two-time National Poetry Slam champion, activist, and educator based in Minneapolis. Read more of his work on how men can dismantle rape culture here.

To learn more about how men are actively combating sexual assault, visit A Call to Men, Men Can Stop Rape, and 1 in 6. And for more on bystander intervention—and what you can do to prevent sexual assault—visit NO MORE.

 

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​Jon Krakauer’s bestselling book Into the Wild immortalized Chris McCandless, the popular, affluent young man who abandoned his possessions, trekked across the country, vanished into the Alaskan wilderness for reasons apparently unknown, and was found starved to death in 1992. His story of wanderlust and reinvention struck a chord with millions of soul-searchers; Sean Penn made the book into an acclaimed film.

Now his sister, Carine McCandless, shares the troubled, violent family history behind her brother’s disappearance in her new bestseller, The Wild Truth. The book chronicles the abuse she and her siblings privately endured at the hands of their violent father. McCandless, a mother of two who is now estranged from both of her parents, talked to NO MORE about the family’s brutal past and her brother’s legacy.

What was it like to write a book that details such a painful family history?

At first I chose not to live in the past, and I felt that I couldn’t revisit it. But it was exactly what I needed to do. I understand why people suffer in silence. It took me 20 years to write this book. My mother used to talk to me throughout my teenage years about how she wanted to be a voice for battered women and children. In our situation, my mother was the primary target [by my father], but over time she became his accomplice, and she got accustomed to a certain lifestyle financially as well. My mom wasn’t able to get herself or her kids out of that situation. I have been able to do that. My brother’s story is a powerful example of the devastating consequences of domestic violence.

What did your childhood teach you?

That your DNA doesn’t define you. I am the youngest of eight siblings, some of whom are half-siblings from my father [Walt McCandless was partnered with two women at the same time and had two families]. None of us are abusive. We have all broken the cycle of violence.

This is the side that nobody knew… I couldn’t not write this book.

Why did you decide to write this book now, so many years later?

Everyone thought they knew my brother’s story. Jon Krakauer did an excellent job showing a certain side of him, but this is the side that nobody knew. ​So I couldn’t not write this book. I’d been telling my story to school groups for years. And I saw the effect it had on teachers, professors, and students, when they learned the rest of Chris’s story. These kids are at an age of opportunity, deciding who they want to be, laying the foundation to be the husbands and wives of tomorrow. Inevitably, whenever I told my story, a student would come up to me after class to confide that they’d experienced violence too, and that they were reaching out for help.

How do you feel about your parents now?

As the only surviving child of their union, I felt this responsibility early on to suck it up and not have them lose me, especially my mother. But I realized I was not responsible for them. Writing this book was my recovery from trauma.

I used to feel mournful about the relationship, before having kids. Being a mother strengthened my resolve to protect them at all costs and never go through what I went through. My responsibility as a daughter and a sister shifted to being a sister and a mother. Chris has passed and is not physically in my life, yet I feel his presence at all times. My parents aren’t in my life at all. Whereas I see the sadness in that, I also see the necessity in it. Sometimes you have to remove yourself. As difficult as that can be, it’s all about self-awareness and truth. Chris taught me that.

My brother’s story is a powerful example of the devastating consequences of domestic violence.

Do you think it’s possible to renew a relationship with an abuser?

Each person has to evaluate that for him or herself. You have to put yourself first. If a person who has abused you in the past cannot be honest about it and doesn’t have the self-awareness to get help, I don’t believe they can change. In my experience, I spent 20 years waiting for people to learn these lessons, and when I realized it was not going to happen, I realized what a disservice I was doing to all of those who sought inspiration from my brother. People tell me all the time how Chris’s story empowers them. Sometimes you have to love yourself enough to let go.

Has your father shown remorse?

I have seen no remorse in him. He is a megalomaniac, and he believes it’s our loss not to be in touch with him. He sees no fault in his actions. We really have no contact except for his occasional threatening emails. I haven’t responded in years.

Do you hold your parents accountable for Chris’s disappearance and death?

He’d always been a lover of nature. But he changed his identity and cut off all contact due to our childhood. I do not blame them for his death. He put himself in precarious situations. But I absolutely hold them accountable for his disappearance. He was being pushed away.

What message would you like to give to people in an abusive situation?

Number one: It’s not your fault. Number two: You don’t deserve it. Number three: You’re worth more than this! You deserve better. Number four: There’s always a way out.

In retrospect, how do you rationalize your brother’s disappearance?

When you understand how much he was hurting, you realize that his trek was a pure act of self-awareness. He needed to resolve everything in his past before he could become a parent or a partner. Sadly, he didn’t live to bring what he learned into his adulthood.

What do you hope this book accomplishes?

I want it to give people hope. I want people to be self-aware and use their voice, either to speak up for themselves and tell the truth or to offer hope to the family down the street, the one who might look fine on the surface, like we did. After telling my story, I’ve had people from high school reach out to me and say, “You know, I could tell something was going on. I wish I’d asked you more about it. I wish I’d said something.” I hope the book makes people willing not to look the other way and to stand with survivors.

If you or someone you know needs help, the National Domestic Violence Hotline is open 24 hours a day at 1-800-799-SAFE. To learn more about men and abuse, visit 1 in 6.

 

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America’s Dad is having a very bad week. A few days ago, Barbara Bowman wrote a personal essay in The Washington Post chronicling how Bill Cosby drugged and raped her 30 years ago.

The story went viral and inspired several others to echo her experiences.

Not so when the teenager spoke out soon after the alleged attacks: When she went to a lawyer after the assaults, she was accused of lying. Her agent did nothing, either. Eventually, she moved on. Years later, Andrea Constand accused Cosby of rape and Bowman was asked to speak in court, but the case was quietly settled.

At this writing, a grand total of 15 women have accused Cosby of assault, dating from the late 1960s. (Here’s a timeline of the accusations.) Despite all this, Cosby’s career had coasted along—in fact, he was awarded the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor not long ago and was planning a new TV show.

But things are changing.

Finally, the accusers’ stories are getting traction. Why now? Last month, comedian Hannibal Buress called Cosby a rapist in his stand-up routine, which went viral. The Twitter-verse responded in kind: Last week, Cosby’s tone-deaf invitation to “meme me!” resulted in people superimposing assault accusations over his photo. #Cosbymeme did not go according to plan, and things only got worse: Last weekend, NPR interviewed him about his African American art collection and then asked him to respond to the Post story. He went silent. Eventually, his lawyer issued a statement firmly denying the allegations and refusing to comment further.

But the damage has been done: New stories about Cosby’s behavior continue to surface, Netflix has put his upcoming comedy special on hold, and NBC has abandoned plans to develop a new sitcom with him.

Why Accusations About Celebrities Aren’t Believed

Cosby isn’t the first icon to be accused of sexual assault or domestic violence, and yet the question persists: Why aren’t these accusers heard or given any credence—not just Cosby’s alleged victims, but the countless other people who have dared to challenge a celebrity?

The answer lies in the American conflation of celebrity and security, says Ulester Douglas, executive director of Men Stopping Violence. “We are a celebrity culture. Seeing someone we idolize, revere, and idealize being accused of horrific crimes makes us wonder: Who are we? It makes us realize that our own families could be capable of it, too,” he says. It’s unsettling and even terrifying to associate an idol with evil, particularly because there are so many celebrities who are good people, capable of powerful, positive influence.

Dissonance Perpetuates Silence

David Adams is a psychologist and co-director of Emerge, a Boston-based abusers’ intervention and counseling program. He sees a difference in how we respond to a stereotypical criminal and a celebrity accused of bad behavior due to our preconceptions about abusers. “We tend to think of an abuser as someone who is easily detectable: someone who is crude, sexist, and boorish. A quarter of men who abuse women do fit this stereotype, and since that’s a substantial subgroup, we tend to spot those guys and not the ones who are more likable. If we don’t know what to do with bad information about someone we adore, it creates dissonance, and we sometimes choose to disbelieve or to ignore it,” he says.

“When we see someone likable accused of a crime, we have a choice to believe something bad about them or to discount it because it doesn’t fit our experience. In some ways it’s easier to do that than to think, oh God, the world really is unknowable—I might as well give up on knowing people,” he says. “If we don’t know what to do with information about someone we worship, we put it aside.”

Why Celebrities Feel Immune

Of course, Cosby is hardly the first famous person to be accused of rape or assault. When we think about any celebrity facing serious allegations, though, it’s difficult to believe that an image-conscious idol could be willing to engage in hugely risky behavior, throwing away the very image they need. What’s going through their mind?

“Any consequence is overridden by the high of the conquest,” Douglas says. And, on a purely logistical level, “They do it because they can. They truly think they can get away with it, based on the very fact that they have a certain image. They will be believed; the accusers will be laughed out of the room.”

Absorbing The Narcissism Factor

In many celebrity cases, narcissism also plays a starring role. “A hallmark of narcissism is exceptionality. You literally think you will not get caught. This personality takes chances, acts reckless, and even associates the behavior with success, because they’ve always been rewarded,” Adams says.

“We think narcissists are people nobody would like. But, in fact, they’re quite charismatic, with good social and image-maintenance skills”— which often allow them to get away with bad behavior, even more so when there’s a PR team on call. Narcissists are also skilled at compartmentalization, Adams says, and they choose to focus on the “part of their life that everybody adores. They don’t focus on other parts of their lives, and if they do something wrong, they think, ‘Gee, everybody loves me. What’s the problem?’” he says. “It’s a lack of character development.”

“Narcissists can engage in all sorts of psychological gymnastics not to feel empathy,” says Douglas.

The Changing Tide

Adams says that it’s easy to categorize personalities as good versus bad. “We don’t think good and evil can co-exist in the same person,” he says. “But look at the Mafia—these guys who do horrible things but are notoriously good to their mothers. And along comes a show like The Sopranos to paint them in a more nuanced light. There’s now less focus on ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys,’” he says. Understanding the complexities of personalities—refusing to glorify a celebrity as all good, all the time—could help to close the dissonance gap.

“We can also go a long way toward preventing male sexual and domestic violence against women by stopping the pervasive and pernicious victim-blaming,” Douglas says. “The media, for example, should quit asking the toxic, ‘Why did you go back to your abuser?’ and ‘Why didn’t you leave?’ A reporter could say instead, ‘As you know, there are some who question your credibility because of some of the choices you made. What, if anything, would you want to say to them?’ That is respectful journalism. The [accuser] should never be made to feel like she has to justify the choices she made or makes.”

Finally, in his own work with Men Stopping Violence, Douglas sees firsthand the power of healing through sharing. “I see survivors who are finding peace through coming forward and telling their stories. One of the most powerful things that survivors can do is tell their own stories, on their own terms,” he says.

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It all started with a simple hashtag. Thirty-one-year-old Bev Gooden, a human resources manager on the East Coast, was tired of people criticizing Janay Rice for defending Ray Rice after video surfaced of him assaulting her in an elevator. Bev was a domestic violence survivor herself. She knew how hard it was to just up and leave. So she took to Twitter and explained why she stayed in an abusive relationship:

“I stayed because my pastor told me that God hates divorce. It didn’t cross my mind that God might hate abuse, too. #WhyIStayed,” she Tweeted.

An hour later, thousands of people had used her hashtag to share why they stayed, too. The result? A social media firestorm that finally encapsulated how very hard it is to leave an abusive relationship.

NO MORE talked to her about how she harnessed the power of social media to shift the blame from survivors to where it belongs.

Why did you decide to start this hashtag?

On my Twitter feed, everyone was asking the same question: Why did Janay Rice stay with Ray Rice? People were saying, oh, she must want his money, or some variation. Nobody asked why he hit her! The blame was on her as opposed to him. Not a lot of people knew it, but about four years ago, I left my ex-husband who was abusive. In that moment, I was angry. I felt the need to defend not only her but all survivors. And so without even thinking about starting a movement, I hashtagged #WhyIStayed.

People were speaking about their experiences. The conversation completely changed.

Then what happened?

I went back to work. An hour later, I got back on Twitter and it was trending. I was like, wow! I read the Tweets. Oh my God: People were sharing their stories. People were speaking about their experiences. The conversation completely changed. On day two, I saw an infographic that people were sending 2,000 Tweets per hour with the hashtag.

How did your life change after you Tweeted?

Now I have a passion for DV advocacy. I’d been that person who experienced it, but that was it. I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t make it my issue. Now I’m working on the Bolt Bag project. Basically you put toiletries, clothing, and any medicines you need in a bag, so that if you actually have to run out the door, you can just grab it. Making a bag can be hard. When you are trying to get out, packing seems daunting. I want there to be fewer obstacles, so I’m making these bags.

Why does society victim-blame?

For some reason, society expects the victim to explain themselves. With rape, too: What were you doing? Why did you wear that? Why did you drink that much? I think we exist in a space where we want there to be a reason why a person would commit a violent crime against someone. We don’t want to accept that sometimes there is no reason and that it could happen to any of us.

From a personal perspective, can you explain why it’s hard to leave?

This aspect is really not talked about. For me, most of the time, I didn’t want the relationship to end. I wanted the violence to end, but not the relationship. If the violence ended, in my mind that would fix the issue. If he was angry, how could I make him not angry? If he was sad, how could I lift his spirits?

The majority of abusers are sweet, awesome people prior to the abuse. I had this Prince Charming. He loved me and romanced my family. But in an instant he turned into a monster. Then he went back to being sweet. He could go from zero to 60 fast. If I was to walk out the door, who’s to say he wouldn’t try to kill me?

Plus, a lot of people are isolated from friends or family. I was halfway across the country from my whole family at the time. I didn’t have money to get on a train. He was my home. And I had a right to exist in my home without my violence.

Why did you ultimately leave?

I left because I decided he was going to kill me. It hurt when he hit me, but I didn’t think he’d ever kill me. Then one day there was an incident where he didn’t like a dish in the sink. I didn’t see it; it wasn’t a big deal. He woke me up, pushed me out of bed, and I ran to the bathroom. He started throwing things like books and phones. He rushed to the bathroom and punched me. It took that realization that he could kill me to say NO MORE.

I wanted to live more than I wanted to be married to him.

How did you get away?

It still took me two months to save up. I still didn’t have support because I didn’t tell anyone, and he was this upstanding citizen. Nobody suspected anything. I wrote an email testimony to my two best friends in September 2010. I wrote all the times that I could remember when he hit me. I made my statement in case something happened to me. Then I left in December, filed for divorce in April, and he didn’t come to court. It became official in July 2011.

How did your family react?

My mom said, “You don’t owe him your silence.” And so I will keep speaking out.

If you need immediate help, call the National Domestic Violence hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE. Visit NO MORE for additional survivor resources.

 

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One in three women experience violence from their partners in a lifetime. And the pain spreads far deeper and longer than the moment of impact — the punch, the slap, the kick. Living with an abuser can cause long-term chronic illnesses, too.

Survivors of intimate partner violence are 70% more likely  to have heart disease.

Eighty-one percent of female survivors struggle with a chronic health problem brought on by the ongoing stress of living with an abuser. Some have wheezing from asthma, because a partner might control finances that prevent them from picking up their medication or mock them when they use an inhaler. Some abusers won’t allow the use of contraception, resulting unintended pregnancies. And sometimes survivors turn to unhealthy behaviors, like drinking and smoking, to cope with stress.

That’s not all: Still more get sick with conditions triggered by stress-related inflammation like diabetes, arthritis, and hypertension. (More magazine has an excellent article, based on research funded by Verizon Foundation, about domestic violence and how stress triggers these illnesses.)

By the Numbers

Survivors of Intimate Partner Violence Are…

  • 60% more likely to have asthma
  • 70% more likely  to have heart disease
  • 80% more likely to have a stroke
  • Twice as likely to be a current smoker
  • Twice as likely to suffer from depression and headaches

Source: Centers for Disease Control and Verizon Foundation/More Magazine

Dr. McCaw 3-13-08What can we do about it? Dr. Brigid McCaw, medical director of Kaiser Permanente’s Family Violence Prevention Program, has encouraging news. According to research, the majority of women end violent relationships, and the majority of women do not have recurrent abusive relationships, McCaw says. Kaiser Permanente is a leading health care system that has pioneered an innovative approach to using the health care setting to improve family violence prevention services.

It’s ok to ask for help – reach out to someone you trust, talk to your doctor.

“It’s okay to ask for help — reach out to someone you trust, talk to your doctor,” she urges. “Research has shown that women who talked to their health care provider were four times more likely to seek help. In my own practice every day, I see women taking the courageous steps to be safer, reclaiming their lives and their health,” she says.

Thanks to the growing awareness about the long-term health implications of domestic violence and due to the recommendations of multiple health professional organizations, medical providers nationwide are learning more about how to talk with their patients about this important issue.

Read stories of courage, survival, and hope contributed by McCaw’s Kaiser Permentante physicians, staff, and employees who have dealt with domestic violence here.

If you or someone you know needs immediate help, text or call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. For more information about domestic violence and how to prevent it, visit NO MORE.

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Using pins, posters, parties, videos, and even blue-frosted doughnuts, five colleges in Birmingham, Alabama, are adopting the NO MORE mission to stop sexual assault and violence.

Allison Dearing spearheads campus outreach and prevention efforts as campus coordinator for the city’s Crisis Center, Inc. Her job is funded through a 2012 grant to Reduce Sexual Assault, Domestic Violence, Dating Violence, and Stalking on Campus, through the Department of Justice’s Office on Violence Against Women.

She works closely with these five Birmingham colleges — Samford University, Birmingham-Southern College, Miles College. University of Montevallo, and the University of Alabama at Birmingham — to provide education and support alongside school police, student affairs, residential life, and other important campus resources.

Male and female students see the symbol as empowering and inclusive.

“Because our universities are so diverse and unique, we needed a unifying theme and symbol to spread awareness,” she says. “We needed something to really galvanize our efforts to combat sexual assault, and NO MORE was the obvious choice.”

Students connected with the NO MORE message right away.

Dearing started by ordering a few NO MORE pins and distributing them. It caught on. Her contacts at each school began downloading the NO MORE toolkit and coordinating their own NO MORE themed events. Dearing launched a NO MORE Birmingham Facebook page to chronicle events and to share NO MORE photos at each school.

“Students see our posters and walk by and say, ‘Hey, I know NO MORE!’ Maybe they were watching an SVU marathon and saw a PSA. NO MORE has been reinforced in the media, and this just strengthens the momentum. Male and female students see the symbol as empowering and inclusive,” Dearing says.

‘I know exactly what you need, and I know exactly why you’re doing it. NO MORE!’

Better yet, the message has caught on citywide. “Last week, I heard from someone at a NO MORE event that she’d tried to order blue frosted NO MORE doughnuts. She described what she wanted to the deli, and the deli owner said, ‘I know exactly what you need, and I know exactly why you’re doing it. NO MORE!’ There’s a woman at the deli who’s aware of this campaign? It’s thrilling!” Dearing says.

Students agree. Kiera Walker is a University of Alabama – Birmingham graduate student who works with NO MORE on campus.

“People are taking a responsible stand. No more victim-blaming or excuses. We’re finally coming to a point where we’re holding people accountable for their actions,” she says.

Want to bring the power of NO MORE to your campus? Use our toolkit to spread the word. Also, check out this free webinar on bringing NO MORE to your school!

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Troy Vincent is one of the many strong and committed leaders speaking out against domestic violence and sexual assault, joining more than 20 top current and former NFL players speaking out in NO MORE Public Service Announcement Ads (PSAs) that officially premiered on October 23rd, 2014.

He joined New York Giants quarterback Eli Manning, Dallas Cowboys tight end Jason Witten, San Diego Chargers tight end Antonio Gates, Hall of Famer Cris Carter, and others in says ‘No More’ excuses for the silence and inaction that surrounds domestic violence and sexual assault.NOMORE_PSA_NFL_Troy_Vincent

Joyful Heart Foundation’s president Mariska Hargitay and actors Blair Underwood and Tate Donovan directed the broadcast PSAs, while the print ads were photographed by Timothy White.  All of the NO MORE creative was developed pro bono by Young & Rubicam.

But Vincent has been working to create change for a long time. The former player and current NFL Executive Vice President of Football Operations has a personal connection to these issues — his mom is a domestic violence survivor. That’s why he helped to coordinate the effort and appears in the PSAs. Vincent talked to NO MORE about football players’ opportunity to combat domestic violence and sexual assault, now more than ever.

NO MORE: What message do you hope these PSAs send to football fans and to the general public?

TROY VINCENT: That domestic violence and sexual assault are not just an NFL issue. These are issues that are faced by all of us. It will take the collective nature and shared responsibility of us as humanity, as God’s children, to solve this together. Whether we are football fans or not, we share in treating one another with respect and dignity.

It is time for all men to stand up and be held accountable.

NM: What’s the ultimate long-term goal of the PSAs both within the football community itself and in the culture more broadly?

TV: We want to raise the national dialogue on this issue. It is something in which we all can share. We need to send the message that we are not bystanders. It was Edmund Burke who said in the 1700’s that “all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” It is time for all men to stand and be held accountable on this issue.

NM: From your own perspective, how has the world changed for boys and young men over the years when it comes to talking about issues like sexual assault and violence? Are these things easier to discuss or harder?

TV: It’s interesting to me that, in a society so highly charged with the culture of sexual enlightenment, we have such a difficult time discussing the things that are right and wrong. It is wrong to do harm to another. There is no other society, no other time in history, that this message needs to be so clearly communicated. Fathers need to make a point to show and tell their sons what’s right and to tell their daughters how they should be treated. We have no excuse, and we should all be open enough with our friends and family to have that discussion.

The responsibility we have as parents is to ensure that our children know the difference between on-the-field passion and off-the-field compassion.

NM: As a father and as a football player, what advice would you give to parents trying to educate their children about these issues?

TV: I love my wife and my daughters. I have the utmost respect and reverence for them and their well-being. Football is a love of my life, but it is also a game. To succeed in football, we have to be aggressive. But that aggression must stay on the field. The family is a place of love, peace, security, and compassion. The responsibility we have as parents is to ensure that our children know the difference between on-the-field passion and off-the-field compassion. There must be balance, and if it is weighted, it must be weighted on the side of kindness. There is never a reason to harm a loved one or one who trusts you. Time to say No More.

NM: How were the football players selected for the PSAs?

TV: These are men who are passionate and demonstrative about their beliefs. As players, they were or are passionate on the field, and they are passionate about being the right kind of men. They know the score; they know the right thing to do; and they are not afraid to tell others how it is. They are confident in their manhood and know that women should be respected and revered, and they are not afraid to take a stand for what they believe.

You can get involved, too! Download a poster PDF to share at NFL games or take a photo with your #NOMORE poster and share it on social media during games, using the hashtag #NOMORE.

Watch the PSA below or click here learn more about the ‘NFL Players Say NO MORE’ PSAs:

 

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TRIGGER WARNING: This content deals with an account of domestic violence and may be triggering to some people. If you need help, please contact The National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE).

Laura Alegria’s 25-year-old daughter, Dometria Carbajal, was killed by her estranged husband on June 6, 2004, when he broke into her apartment, beat her in a murderous rage, and left her to die in a pool of blood. Laura is determined to protect her daughter’s biggest legacy: her toddler son, Michael, who’s a teenager now. She’s sharing her story in the hope that other abuse victims feel less alone.

Dometria had known Pat since she was 12. Life moved on, they met other people, he was in a relationship. Then, at 23, she ran into him again and fell in love. She wanted so much to have a family.

He asked for her hand on Valentine’s Day. They got married at the Denver Botanical Gardens, and shortly thereafter, their son, Michael, was born.

I used to help watch the baby. One day I picked him up, and I noticed a little bruise on Dometria’s eye. She told me Michael had done it while she was trying to brush his teeth, and I believed her. He was a rough, chubby little kid. “As long as someone else didn’t do it to you,” I said. She assured me they hadn’t, and I believed her. We were very close.

She knew Pat cheated. People saw him. She’d confront him, and he’d worm his way back in.

She knew Pat cheated. People saw him. His mom owned a bar, and he’d hang out there, helping her, meeting other women, flirting, having fun. She’d confront him, and he’d worm his way back in.

All the while, she was trying to make ends meet. He wanted her to be a stay-at-home mom, and at first it seemed like a fairy tale. He told her, “No wife of mine will work.” Well, he didn’t want to work, either. He was out partying, and she was working for the Denver sheriff’s department and trying to take care of a baby.

I knew he didn’t want to hold down a job. I said to him, look, you have a baby now. He’d tell me he was really trying. My daughter bought him a computer to look for work, and he was online gambling instead. Dometria would go to the store to buy diapers and her account would be overdrawn.

She finally moved in with me and saved up some money to get an apartment of her own in a complex where a lot of our family lived.

But even then, she’d never deny Pat access to Michael. Once Dometria called me in a panic, saying that Pat was talking crazy, saying he was going to kill himself. She was terrified because the baby was home with him. When I arrived, Pat met me at the door, telling me how he couldn’t bear to lose Dometria and how much he loved her, saying that he just wanted to die. I said, “If you’re going to kill yourself, do it on your own time. You’re a dad now so start acting like one. Put this baby first for once.”

On the day Dometria died, I babysat Michael so she could go to work. She came early to eat lunch. She was rumpled—and her clothes were never rumpled. I asked if I could iron for her, but she said no. While she was here, the phone kept ringing. It was him. He called 15 times. Dometria was obviously very upset as she tried to reason with him. Hanging up, she said she wished he would just leave her alone.

I told her that she didn’t need to take his calls, that she should change her number. She told me how she wished she’d never married him, how sorry she was that we spent all this money on her wedding. Then she went off to work. I never saw her alive again.

She called to check in at about 9 o’clock that night and asked if she could go out with her cousins. I told her to go out and have fun, and to just pick up Michael in the morning.

At breakfast, there was no Dometria. I called her and it went right to voicemail. I didn’t think anything of it, actually — I thought she was with her cousins, maybe getting her nails done.

Then the phone rang. It was my brother-in-law, whose daughter lived in the apartment next door to Dometria. He had found her dead.

I was howling: My baby is dead; my baby is dead

It was like I was in a vacuum with the noise sucked out. I could only hear a loud roaring, like I was driving down the highway with the windows open. But the roaring was me. I was howling: My baby is dead; my baby is dead.

She’d been looking at pictures with her cousins after work the night she died. He was lurking outside the apartment complex, peering in the picture window, watching her have a good time and getting madder by the minute.

Her cousins told me the last thing she said to them was, “If you need a place to stay, come next door to my apartment. Don’t drive drunk.” Then she went home and he was there, waiting for her.

They found her partially naked, skull bashed. He’d tried to make it look like a rape. I took a plea bargain so the jury wouldn’t see photos of her like that. My daughter was someone who wouldn’t even wear a low-cut shirt. I couldn’t bear to see 12 strangers looking at her. With the plea, I knew he’d get at least 30 years. And by that time, Michael would be a man. I could protect him and his childhood.

His other grandmother served me with custody papers for Michael the day we buried Dometria. After a nearly two-year battle in which I was awarded custody, I told her, “Look. I need to talk to you. You know what? All of this is water under the bridge. I would never keep Michael from you. We need to do everything we can for this little boy. My daughter is gone. Your son is in jail. Every choice we make needs to be for him,” and so I put out my hand in friendship. And we both bawled.

Michael’s a teenager now. He witnessed violence that I never even knew about. Nobody knew; nobody told me. I’ve put him in everything: gymnastics. baseball for four years, basketball, karate. I keep him active. He’s doing amazingly well, living with this knowledge, with the violence that he’s seen.

He gets morose every once in a while. He hates his father and he loves him and misses him. He wants to honor his mother, and he has guilt. I tell him: “I don’t hate your father. I accepted him as my son when he married your mom. He made a terrible mistake.” I assure him that his feelings are valid and that he needn’t feel guilty for loving his dad, or for sometimes feeling like he hates him. I say, “Baby, there are days that I hate him, too. I hate what he did to my baby girl, but most of all I hate what he took from you.”

Dometria was a tall, beautiful young woman. She purchased her first house before she turned 21. Never wanting to rent, she saved all her money and started filling a hope chest at the age of 14. She could budget money like no one’s business. Even as a child, she could stretch $30.00 that she saved and buy everyone a Christmas present. She loved to eat and could out-eat most men I know. Her favorite ice cream was pistachio almond from Baskin-Robbins. She learned to drive a manual transmission when she was 14 and never wanted to drive an automatic.

She worked hard and was loved by everyone she met. Coworkers, friends, and neighbors said she had a heart of gold. The younger girls in the family wanted to be like Dometria. When we lost her, she left a huge void in our family. Young men and women whose life she touched years ago still pilgrimage to her burial spot on her birthday or on the anniversary of her death. I go to upkeep her grave and I find little notes, flowers, religious statues. She has a Facebook page where old friends from school go as they find out that she is gone.

To families or friends who might suspect abuse: Talk to your children. Don’t be judgmental.

To families or friends who might suspect abuse: Talk to your children. Don’t be judgmental. My daughter didn’t want to look stupid because we’d spent all this money on her wedding. She wanted a family unit. She wanted so badly to preserve that unit. She felt she had to make it work, so she kept forgiving him.

I wanted to trust Pat too, and I wanted to believe Dometria would tell me if something was wrong. Later people told me they’d been to her house, and that the windows were shattered and that there were holes in the walls. Nobody told me, even though we were so close.

Dometria lived life with passion. She was strong, faithful, loving, and independent. But she loved and trusted someone who didn’t deserve it. She paid the ultimate price for her love. I miss my daughter so much. Please, if you know something — say something.

Here are some common red flags for potentially abusive relationships, provided by the Red Flag Campaign. If you suspect that you or a loved one might be in an abusive relationship, Help Guide offers warning signs and common patterns of abuse.

One in every four women experience domestic violence in their lifetime, and almost one-third of female homicide victims reported in the police records are killed by an intimate partner.

Source: National Coalition Against Domestic Violence

If you or someone you know needs help, call The National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE).

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Going beyond those three words.

The phrase “Yes Means Yes” is catching on nationwide, thanks to the new law launched in California that requires college students to give consent before sex. What does it mean? How can it be implemented? How can it be enforced? It’s a memorable motto—and definitely more proactive than “no means no”—but what does the new law actually do?

Here’s what you need to know, from one of the women who helped make it a reality. Denice Labertew, J.D., Director of Advocacy Services at the California Coalition Against Sexual Assault, worked closely with the bill’s author, Senator Kevin deLeon.

It’s broader in scope than just “yes means yes.”

“It’s the part that people attach themselves to because it represents a shift in thinking,” Labertew says. But the bill, SB967, was actually designed to address how to respond to sexual assault on state-funded college campuses in three major ways.

Part One

The sexual-misconduct campus adjudication process. Basically, the law finally lifts the burden from sexual assault survivors—to resist, to find help, to seek out justice, to explain how it happened—to the people who should respect and protect them. Now, it’s survivor-centric. The initiator should have gotten a “yes”; the recipient shouldn’t have to say “no.”

The law spurs a shift in thinking about what sexual engagement actually means, which is why it’s taken on a life of its own. “Instead of a survivor having to answer for her or his behavior with the assumption that she should have been available for sex until saying no, the burden is now on the accused. They have to say: ‘This is why I thought I had consent,’” she says.

Many schools use affirmative consent already. This simply codifies a more uniform approach to the adjudication process at California colleges.

Part Two

Community engagement. There’s now a deliberate focus on off-campus support resources. Colleges will be required to collaborate with local organizations like rape crisis centers to make sure they have a strong presence for students—ideally before assaults even take place, and also during any adjudication process.

“There’s a greater emphasis now on community partnerships. In the past, we saw colleges being able to circle the wagons. This will make campuses less insular and limits the potential conflicts between the needs of the survivor and the needs of the institution,” Labertew says.

Part Three

Prevention. Schools will need to implement comprehensive prevention programs for all incoming and transfer students. This is especially important during college orientation, a time when the risk for sexual assault is high. It also addresses a critical gap with prevention strategies that go beyond orientation and aim to saturate a campus community. Comprehensive prevention programs are things like self-defense classes, assault awareness seminars, and bystander intervention programs.

An amnesty clause will support victims and bystanders.

If a student was assaulted or witnessed an assault at a party with, say, underage drinking, he or she won’t get in trouble for being there. This should help other students come forward or intervene without fear of punishment.

Yes means yes redefines what sexual assault means.

“The reason this has blown up is because we exist in a society that effectively says women’s bodies are up for grabs. Now we’re flipping it: Other people’s bodies are not just available—until they say so,” Labertew says.

What does this mean for the country? “As a society, we have the tendency to be sex-phobic. Now we’re having a real conversation: This doesn’t work for me. Let’s do this, or not do that, or I’m not interested. It has people talking,” Labertew says.

Party With Consent founder Jonathan Kalin works to empower men on college campuses to understand what consent really means (check out NO MORE’s interview with him a few months ago) in an approachable, positive way. He says the bill is a sign that policy is catching up with society. “Policy is finally reflecting a culture shift: a not-no doesn’t equal a yes. The law can normalize what we’ve been talking about for so long; it will take away some of the awkwardness in talking about consent,” he says.

It gives hope to students who feel shamed or stigmatized.

Savannah Badalich is a UCLA student, a member of the NO MORE team, and the founder of 7000 in Solidarity, a campus group that boosts sexual assault resources and survivor support.

“To call the law monumental is an understatement. Many survivors don’t report their sexual assault due to the feeling of shame or guilt, as if they could have prevented their own assault. … Prior to SB 967, a university’s conduct hearings or honor court could use their own silence and shock against them, asking: ‘Why didn’t you fight back?’ ‘Why didn’t you say no multiple times?’ ‘Why were you drinking with them?’ or ‘Why did you put yourself in that situation?'”

But that’s changing.

“This law goes beyond changing a definition for an adjudication process—it’s creating a cultural shift. All incoming freshman and transfer students must go through new student orientations with these new definitions. Students will be educated on affirmative consent to not only prevent sexual assault from occurring but to help shift a campus climate from one of silence and stigma to one of support and healing,” she says.

That’s something we can all say yes to.

Learn more about CALCASA’s work with colleges to prevent sexual violence here. And visit NO MORE’s Toolkit to spread the message on your own campus.

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Andrea is a happily married thirty-something mom of two young kids with a job she loves. But when she was six years old, her father shot her mother — and then he killed himself. This is her story.

My dad was a Vietnam veteran. People said he changed when he came back from the war. He slept with a knife under his bed. Sometimes he’d sleepwalk.

I don’t remember ever witnessing violence, except once. My mom was cooking dinner. She had eggs on the stove, and they boiled over. My father threw dinner on the floor—just cleared the whole table with his hand. My sister remembers him screaming a lot. People said he hit her, too, but I don’t remember that.

The week before my mom was going to leave, she took us to my uncle’s house. I remember sitting on her lap and her saying, “We’re moving.”

The next day, my sister went on a trip to Great Adventure with friends, and I was playing in the backyard. My parents were arguing inside. I came in, and my dad packed my bag all of a sudden and said I was going to my grandparents’ house. This wasn’t unusual; I went there a lot.

He dropped me off and told my grandparents he needed to spend some time with my mother alone. He never came back.

People began looking for my mother. My grandfather called my uncle, my father’s brother. My mom’s work called my mother’s brother. Both of my uncles arrived at my house at the same time. Nobody answered the door, so they decided to break in.

They found her shot dead on the couch. My father was on the floor next to her. I guess he left a small note for his parents, my grandparents, saying he was sorry and that he loved us.

I never went back to the house again.

Within a couple months, my aunt and uncle on my dad’s side took us in. I was living with my three cousins, going to a new Catholic school. For a while, they told my sister and me that my parents were on vacation. Then my uncle finally said they weren’t coming back.

Being an adult and having my own kids, I see how poorly my stepmother treated me. They weren’t well-off, and now here comes two more kids that she had to take in. She reminded us of that all the time. She made us feel like she was doing us a favor; she told us our dad was a murderer. We were kind of at her mercy. She wanted to take us in more because people could look at her and say what a wonderful person she was. In her heart, she didn’t want us. As a mom, I know that now.

My stepparents sat down with the school and told the principal, you know, told him that this was a tragic event, these kids are coming. But nobody talked about it with us. It was swept under the rug. My sister and I went to counseling at the school once a week but it was more like, “Your father snapped.” It was too abstract for a young kid to understand, much less use as a healing tool. It should have been clearer.

As I got older, I began grappling with questions: Who am I? Do I look like my mom? I didn’t have a base to come back to. When you’re orphaned, you don’t understand who you are or where you came from. Even as a kid filling out medical forms and things where I’d need to know my family history, I was so embarrassed. I couldn’t do it.

And I knew nothing about my father, beyond that my whole family was divided against him. My mother’s parents had fought for custody and lost. My grandparents decided never to speak to them or us. Maybe they would send Christmas gifts occasionally. My mother’s brother did come see us every Sunday—it was his visitation day.

I feel no longing for my father. But in my teen years, I built up an image of my mom in my mind. That she was wonderful. That life would’ve been perfect if only I had her. And I went through a hatred of people in my family: Why didn’t you help her? Where were you when she was getting hit? People felt defensive. My uncle told me, “I knew but I didn’t know.”

I had a childhood friend who went to college and did well. I knew college was my only savior. I moved out at 17, took out student loans, and never looked back. I inherited a little bit of money from my parents’ estate when I turned 18, and I used that to pay rent.

I graduated and began to count the years. I’d think, OK, I’ve gone 25, 27 years without parents.

I met my husband at 20. He told me, “Don’t look back. Always move forward and think about what’s to come.” Clearly I went into the relationship with a ton of baggage. I didn’t know how to operate in a marriage. I can be hypersensitive because I want the opposite of what I had. My husband might roll his eyes, and I’ll tell him to respect me. I want to make extra sure that the same thing will never happen to me. He’s very patient and understanding.

This is not a bruise that fades. Think about that before you hurt someone.

Having kids opened up different emotions for me, too. I used to be terrified of leaving my kids. I couldn’t leave them overnight for many years; I’d always think, “This could be the last day they see me alive.” I found a therapist who specializes in childhood trauma. Through that, I realized how I was parenting my kids through my own insecurities. Now, I can go away for a girls’ weekend and feel OK about it. I might not tell my own children what happened, though; if I do, it’ll be a teachable moment. But I’ll never say to them, for instance, “The people you think are your grandparents aren’t really your grandparents at all.” They call them their grandparents out of respect, even though they don’t really feel like parents to me.

After all this, why am I successful? I felt that I was starting life behind, carrying a shameful secret. I didn’t want to be an orphan or the daughter of a murderer. I needed something else to define me. I found comfort in school: I was good at it, and I got good grades. I saw the enjoyment of doing well and the reward of hard work. It made me proud, and I wanted to continue that successful feeling in college and then in a career. I needed to prove everyone wrong, to prove I would be successful despite the past.

I’ve never gone public because I don’t want to be pitied. Usually, I tell friends that my parents died in an accident and leave it at that. But there are a few things I’d like people to know: The pain never goes away. I’m a wife, a mother, an adult, and I’m still dealing with my parents’ issues. This is not a bruise that fades. Think about that before you hurt someone. Why would you do this to your kids? You think they don’t know, you think they don’t understand, but at some point they will.

And for survivors: Do not be ashamed. Find a reason to make your past drive you.

Up to 12 million American children are exposed to domestic violence every year. Find resources for children exposed to domestic violence at Futures Without Violence and at the Family Violence Prevention Project.

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