When representatives from fifteen newly funded Family Justice Center pilot sites gathered at the Omni San Diego Hotel in early 2004, the event was framed as a collaborative kickoff — a chance for communities across the country to learn from the San Diego model and begin building their own multidisciplinary centers. What most attendees never saw, however, was the tension surrounding who was allowed to take part and who were not.
At the time, I was President of the National Coalition For Men’s San Diego chapter, which I had started in 1997. NCFM’s chapter and national headquarters sat just a few blocks from the Omni, and our organization had long been involved in supporting victims of domestic violence, including male victims who often struggled to find services. When the event organizers initially invited local domestic‑violence and social‑service providers to host informational booths, we applied.
Our request was denied.
We challenged the decision, pointing out that NCFM had over 20 years of experience nationally assisting victims and advocating for equitable services. We made it clear that excluding us — while inviting other providers — raised serious concerns, and we were prepared to pursue legal remedies if necessary. Rather than reconsider, the organizers chose a different route. We were told that no service providers would be allowed to host booths at the event. The entire idea was scrapped.
The message was unmistakable.
Shortly afterward, I was approached by a male sergeant from the San Diego Police Department. I do not recall his name, but I remember the conversation. He instructed me not to show up at the celebration and to stay away from the venue altogether. The warning was not subtle. He suggested that if I ignored his advice, “odd things” might start happening — things like broken taillights, parking tickets, and other small but disruptive infractions that could make life difficult. It was the kind of message that did not need to be repeated.
The irony was hard to miss. The Family Justice Center model was built on the idea of collaboration, transparency, and community partnership. Yet here was a national kickoff event — one meant to launch a movement — quietly shutting out a long‑standing local and national organization because our presence did not fit the preferred narrative. Instead of engaging with differing perspectives, the organizers chose to cut all outside participation and enforce that decision with pressure that felt more personal than procedural.
None of this diminishes the significance of the event itself. The Omni gathering marked the beginning of a national effort that would eventually reshape how communities respond to domestic violence. It brought together police chiefs, prosecutors, advocates, medical professionals, and federal officials who were genuinely committed to improving victim services. But it also revealed the growing pains of a movement still learning how to navigate complexity — including the reality that victims are not a monolithic group and that service providers do not always agree on the best path forward.
Looking back, the kickoff event was both a milestone and a reminder. It launched a national model that has helped countless families, but it also highlighted the importance of ensuring that all voices — even the inconvenient ones — have a place in conversations about safety, justice, and support — even male victims.
Across the United States, domestic‑violence services remain profoundly imbalanced: while hundreds — if not thousands — of shelters and advocacy programs operate exclusively for women, male victims have access to only a small fraction of comparable services, despite national data showing that men experience abuse at substantial rates. Federal surveys report that 19.3% of men have been assaulted by a partner at least once, compared to 23% of women (CDC NISVS 2010 Summary Report), and broader national data shows that more than 2 in 5 men experience intimate partner violence in their lifetime, with 1 in 4 men enduring severe physical violence from a partner (CDC NISVS 2015 Data Brief). Additional research finds that men experience 4.2 million incidents of domestic violence annually, compared to 3.5 million for women (Bureau of Justice Statistics – “Violence Between Intimates, yet shelter‑usage data shows that men make up only 8.1% of those served by domestic‑violence programs nationwide, while women account for 67.9% (HUD Annual Homeless Assessment Report – Domestic Violence Section). This disparity reveals a system that publicly claims inclusivity while structurally excluding millions of male victims whose needs remain largely unacknowledged.
Since then, domestic violence as an issue has evolved into a full‑blown, ideologically driven, multi‑billion‑dollar industry—one that still largely prevents male victims and survivors from accessing services or receiving government‑funded support. In addition, there are indications that the funding itself has been misused. Evidence suggests that a sizable part of these billions goes toward extraordinary excessive program‑manager salaries, generous benefit packages, travel, and luxury accommodations, like the kickoff event held at high‑end venues like the Omni Hotel. In today’s dollars such a lavish event would surely cost a quarter of a million dollars or more.
Taken together, these patterns point to a system that has drifted far from its original mission. What began as an effort to protect vulnerable people has, in many cases, hardened into an entrenched bureaucracy with little incentive to reform itself or broaden access to those it routinely overlooks. This disconnect between stated purpose and actual practice raises urgent questions about oversight, transparency, programs for men and the stewardship of public funds—questions that form the foundation of Domestic Violence Funding: Waste, Fraud, and the Hidden Crisis of Accountability.
