Yolanda Carter was once an avid line dancer known for her smooth two-step. 

More than nine years ago, a domestic violence attack not only forced her to walk away from her beloved dance group, but it changed her life forever.

It was around midnight on March 22, 2016, when Carter went to bed next to Aaron White, her on-and-off boyfriend of eight years. Hours later, she was in an ambulance, being rushed from her Hyde Park apartment in Chicago to a nearby hospital with life-threatening injuries.

Though her memory of the attack is limited, she recalls the sound of ringing — and believes her 17-year-old son, who found her lying in a pool of blood, may have saved her life.  

“My son said, ‘Mama, he beat you with a hammer,’” Carter, 58, told Capital B. 

She remembered the shock in the paramedics’ voices when they realized she was still alive. 

Through moans and groans, she recalled saying, “Please don’t let me die. Just let me live.”

She still worries that her five adult children, ages 26 to 41, will carry the trauma of seeing her that way for the rest of their lives. Yet, she and her family have been denied financial relief from Illinois’ crime victim compensation fund. It’s a burden shared by many Black survivors who report crimes, survive violence, or lose loved ones, only to find the systems meant to help them fall short.

Advocates said cases like Carter’s reflect a deeper issue across the country: A criminal justice system that prioritizes punishment over healing — leaving many survivors without the support they need to recover.

“So often we hear about the racial disparities that exist in criminal justice. …through this work I see more racial disparities in victim services,” Aswad Thomas, the national director of Crime Survivors for Safety and Justice, told Capital B.

Advocates said survivors are being blocked from compensation by rules tied to their criminal history, cooperation with law enforcement, or conduct before or after the crime — criteria steeped in bias, as revealed in a recent state-by-state analysis from the Center for American Progress and Common Justice.

Most states set filing deadlines as short as one year, when most victims are unaware of the program to file or may not be emotionally prepared to handle filling out mounds of paperwork recalling their attack — often leaving crime survivors stranded.

Carter has undergone 13 reconstructive surgeries and lost her left eye. Her recovery is far from over, with doctors’ appointments, mental health care, and physical therapy still part of her routine. 

Her ex-boyfriend was arrested and later pleaded guilty to attempted murder. Now, with three years remaining on his 12-year sentence, Carter said she’d rather not talk about his release. Instead, she was focused on her weekend in Atlanta this August, where she joined dozens of other crime survivors at the inaugural Crime Survivors Speak: Healing and Safety Conference, hosted by Crime Survivors for Safety and Justice. 

CSSJ, a publicly funded nonprofit organization, trains survivors in advocacy and organizing as well as connects them with state legislators so they can become involved in changing policy on the local level. 

The convening called for sharing ideas and solutions toward public safety reforms that prioritize survivors, tackle the root causes of violence, and expand access to victim compensation funds — a resource that 96% of survivors surveyed by the Alliance for Safety and Justice, most of them Black and brown, said they never received due to confusion over eligibility or lack of awareness.

Those funds are intended to support survivors of and those impacted by crime with resources such as housing, lost wages, medical bills, funeral costs, mental health counseling, and more.

The hidden hurdles for Black survivors of crime 

Yolanda Jennings, a domestic violence advocate in Philadelphia, first learned about victim compensation funds after her sister’s 2004 death.  Her sister was a domestic violence victim and Jennings herself is a survivor. In addition, last year her 26-year-old son was killed by police in Columbus, Ohio. Yet Jennings has never qualified for aid.

Her family’s struggles didn’t end there. In 2019, Jennings’ cousin was fatally shot by her fiancé. The victim’s sister and three children were still in the house, but law enforcement officials told the sister she wasn’t eligible for victim compensation, Jennings said.

Currently, 44 states, Washington, D.C., and Puerto Rico require survivors to cooperate with law enforcement to get compensation — an obstacle for many Black and brown people who distrust police, according to an Aug. 20 panel discussion about the analysis. Only six states — Illinois, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maryland, New Mexico, and Oregon — allow reporting to non-law enforcement entities like medical or victim service providers.

This gatekeeping mostly by law enforcement is deeply rooted in implicit bias and often punishes survivors whose loved ones were killed by police or who endured domestic violence, advocates argue. An Associated Press report found that between 2018 and 2021, thousands of Black crime survivors in 19 out of 23 states, willing to provide racial demographics data, were disproportionately denied compensation funds compared to their white peers. 

“That’s why I feel like when we go through these things, the hospital should already have an advocate right there to say, ‘You know what? This young lady needs support,’” Carter said, explaining why her victim compensation claim was denied due to time limits and lost receipts.

Left with metal plates and screws in her skull and jaw, Carter has found a reason to smile — she founded Beautifully Scarred, a nonprofit for “other Yolandas out there.”

Reforming victim compensation state by state 

Jennings reunited with Carter at the Crime Survivors for Safety and Justice conference in Atlanta in August, where both serve as advocates. CSSJ has launched a national campaign to educate survivors on accessing victim compensation. Their survey of approximately 3,000 crime victims revealed that nearly all of them “did not access their state Victim Compensation Program,” Thomas said.

As part of CSSJ — a network of 200,000 survivors offering peer support and monthly healing calls — Jennings and Thomas know Carter’s frustration all too well. What Carter faced in Illinois is happening across the country.

The analysis by the Center for American Progress and Common Justice found that no state has a fully effective victim compensation program since the 1984 creation of the federal Victims of Crime Act, which established the crime victim fund.

In Philadelphia, where nearly 10,000 calls were made to the domestic violence hotline in 2024, Jennings blasted the number of emergency housing designated for survivors, with or without children, in addition to the unhoused population. “It’s ridiculous, it’s not enough,” she said.

“People call the hotline saying, ‘I’m in danger. I’m afraid for my life,’” Jennings, 59, added, sharing the frustration of people hearing, “We’re sorry, there’s no room. You gotta keep calling.”

She emphasized the practical barriers: “It takes transportation, housing … often a whole family — mom and five kids — can’t be placed easily. They end up staying in these abusive relationships.”

In Georgia, where the crime must be reported within 72 hours and claims filed within three years, CSSJ is pushing for reform. 

“We’ve been successful in changing state laws in about 14 states so far,” Thomas said, “and our goal is to change the law here in Georgia in 2026.”

“Black people who are survivors of gun violence, like myself, or victims of domestic violence… we’re often excluded from accessing Victim Compensation Programs,” Thomas told Capital B Atlanta during the conference.

Thomas’ goal is for a lawmaker to propose legislation that would eliminate Georgia’s strict reporting window, extend application deadlines from three to five years, and raise the $6,500 funeral cap to better match actual costs, which can climb upward of $8,300, according to recent data from the National Funeral Directors Association. His views reflect key recommendations outlined in a joint analysis by the Center for American Progress and Common Justice.

It would also remove the provision that allows denial of claims based on “contributory conduct,” which disproportionately hurts survivors of police violence or sexual assault where the victim’s actions can be used against them.

An Illinois state law protecting survivors of domestic violence, stalking, and sexual assault helped Carter avoid a lawsuit from her landlord after she broke her lease following the attack.

Still, advocates stress that legislative change isn’t enough. Heather Warnken of the University of Baltimore School of Law, a panelist during a press call about the Center for American Progress and Common Justice state-by-state analysis, emphasized the need for deeper systemic transformation. 

Since 2022, Warnken and her team of student fellows have provided testimony in support of legislation over two dozen bills, including the Victim Compensation Reform Act of 2024, which was signed into law in Maryland last year. The bill ends reliance on police reports and law enforcement to confirm eligibility for compensation funds and increases burial and mental health support costs. 

“We can change the laws,” Warnken said, “but it will mean very little … without the courage to do the deeper, longer, more difficult culture change work.” Work that, she added, requires confronting how racism continues to influence whose harm is acknowledged and addressed.

Last year, Jennings’ son, despite how investigators ruled his death, became one of 341 Black people in the U.S. who were killed following an encounter with police, according to the Mapping Police Violence database. 

“They need to do better when it comes down to how they select people receiving these benefits,” Carter said, her voice tight with frustration. “Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I should have gotten it.”