Rape Crisis Center of Southern Nevada marks 40th anniversary

It was one of those typical errands, the kind you do every day on autopilot.

Shizue Hill had just finished putting gasoline in her car and went inside the little market to grab something to eat or drink, she can’t remember which, when a young woman in her 20s rushed up to her and started talking as if they had known each other for years.

“Miss Hill, you taught me so much, I changed my life,” she told her, tears filling her eyes. “You were the only one who had ever done that. … I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

As she listened, Hill, who works as lead crisis advocate for the Rape Crisis Center of Southern Nevada, realized the woman had been one of her students, a prisoner at a local correctional facility who had taken her course for survivors of sexual assault. The classes allow the women to talk about the trauma of the assaults, often for the first time, and help them find the courage to rebuild their lives.

“She said she was the assistant manager there now. She said, ‘You come back any time because anything you want is on me,’ ” Hill said.

Hill never went back. A survivor herself, she knows she is a reminder of the past and doesn’t seek out clients who have moved on unless they contact her first. But she often pulls out the memory of that day, of standing in that little market with the young woman in tears, as if cupping something precious in her hands.

“This is my passion. … So many things have happened over the 20 years that I’ve been working here. I see so many people come and go, but I’m still here because this is something I believe I’m supposed to do,” she said.

This year, the Rape Crisis Center is observing its 40th anniversary, and volunteers and staff members such as Hill have provided countless hours of assistance since the program’s inception. Thousands of survivors have been helped through round-the-clock advocacy services, counseling and education. The hotline number is 702-366-1640.

Last year alone, about 600 women and men received advocacy services at University Medical Center in the wake of their assaults, and 1,400 received help through support groups and one-on-one counseling. In addition to crisis services, the center’s education and awareness initiatives now reach 10,000 schoolchildren every year through programs such as YourSPACE and Child Assault Prevention, as well as hundreds of survivors in local correctional institutions.

But beyond the facts and figures, to understand how far the center has come, you have to understand why and how it all started.

In 1974, sexual assault victims in Southern Nevada essentially had nowhere to turn — no hotline to call, no one to advocate for them in courts or at hospitals — and the laws provided little protection. Victims’ sexual histories, for example, could be used against them in a Nevada court and there were no statutes regarding spousal rape.

A blame-the-victim mentality that sometimes permeated the culture often kept victims from coming forward and, in the midst of all this, Las Vegas’ population was growing and rape cases were on the rise.

Two local women were the proverbial ripple in the pond.

Florence McClure, a retiree in her 50s with a degree in sociology, and a young counselor named Sandy Petta got together and created an organization called Community Action Against Rape. They set up an office in McClure’s home near Eastern Avenue and Vegas Valley Drive, and turned her family phone number into a rape crisis hotline. The McClure home was also a makeshift shelter, where victims would stay while awaiting court dates or until they could get back on their feet.

Their work was completely volunteer for the first several years and they had no funding, digging into their own pockets so they could print brochures or scrambling to find donations for bus tickets so victims could get back home, according to McClure’s daughter, Carolyn.

Carolyn McClure, who was a young mother in her 20s at the time, remembers the two women taking calls at all hours of the day and night, often meeting victims at the hospital where they would “talk to them and find out what was going on.

“You would get these doctors in these hospitals who would just consider, ‘Oh that’s just a rape case,’ and they’d keep putting them on the bottom of the pile and make them wait, and, you know, they’re already traumatized. … Mom would start bitching and moaning and get something done,” she said.

As time went on, Florence McClure became known as “Hurricane Florence” at the statehouse, tenaciously lobbying for victims’ legislation that is on the books today. Crisis advocates can now accompany survivors to hearings and trials, for example, sexual history cannot be used against a victim in court and marital rape is a crime.

She would even visit the local high schools and talk to young women about sexual violence, a courageous move at that time, according to Carolyn McClure.

“She was always trying to create justice in the world or make it a better place. … What struck her was that she was for women’s rights and women were getting stepped on,” she said of her mother, who died at age 88 in 2009.

Today, what was once called Community Action Against Rape is the nonprofit Rape Crisis Center, housed in a suite of offices off Rancho Drive, just a five-minute drive from University Medical Center. The 40-year-old version has a seven-member staff, an annual budget of about $800,000, and an indispensable volunteer program where each recruit receives 50 hours of training. Spanish-language counseling sessions were added earlier this year.

Although what McClure and Petta created still runs through the program like a vital artery — the crisis response, the court advocacy, counseling, community outreach — there are issues that weren’t even on the radar in 1974.

Executive Director Daniele Dreitzer, in looking toward the center’s future, points out that educating children and parents about the implications of using social media such as Facebook, where perpetrators so often find their victims, will be crucial.

Another focus is the growth of the local nightclub industry and how partyers are putting themselves at risk for sexual assault. Dreitzer recently trained 200 security and nightclub personnel in recognizing possible situations that could lead to an assault, such as predators slipping drugs into someone’s drink. There is also a website called PartySmartinLV.com, created through a partnership with Tao Cares, that provides information for partyers about being safe.

“That’s where the change has to happen, with young people. … The statistics that we hear about young people being victims of sexual abuse or sexual assault are staggering,” she said.

Amid these modern-day challenges, however, the center’s major role will always be as a beacon of hope for survivors, just as it was 40 years ago, Dreitzer said. It is a place where they can find support during a time of crisis, or even years after the abuse or assault.

Amanda Diaz would agree.

She first got help from the center in 2003 after years of sexual abuse by her stepfather, who was sent to prison at the time. She received crisis advocacy assistance, some counseling and attended support groups over the years, but has since moved on and now courageously tells her story so others don’t feel alone.

Last year, however, the 27-year-old received a letter informing her that the perpetrator’s parole hearing had been scheduled, a hearing she would probably need to attend. She called Hill.

“As soon as I got the letter I was freaking out, and the first place I thought of was the Rape Crisis Center. … Things come up that you’re still going to want to have someplace to go back to, and to have them there all the time is very comforting,” she said. “I don’t think I would be where I am today without the Rape Crisis Center.”