Tully: Once a child of domestic violence, he now seeks to help

It was Saturday morning and I guess it was the classroom that got to me. The IPS classroom tucked on the second floor of the Julian Center, sitting dark and quiet that weekend morning but filled with little desks and little chairs, posters on the walls and crayons on the shelves.

And in an instant I got it.

I got exactly what Steven Stolen had been talking about. Sure, I've long known how important the Julian Center was to the city, and how crucial a role it plays in helping victims of domestic violence rebuild their lives. But seeing that classroom, and imagining the kids who sit in those desks, after all they've been through, after all they've seen and heard and felt — well, I got it.

I got why Stolen took a surprising career turn three weeks ago and joined the Julian Center. And I got why, decades after breaking away from the violent father who marred his childhood, he saw in the center's long stretch of buildings along Meridian Street a chance to do something special.

"I just don't think people understand how powerfully this is saving and changing people's lives," he said, referring to the more than 6,000 women and children, and a smaller number of men, who the Julian Center serves every year.

It serves many of them with shelter and other basics, of course, but also with counseling — emotional, financial and otherwise. It helps them move into permanent housing and find jobs. It responds to crises and teams its clients with advocates. Stolen, formerly the managing director of the Indiana Repertory Theatre and, before that, chairman of the Butler University School of Music, was brought in to work with CEO Catherine O'Connor, and to bring his fundraising and messaging skills to the organization.

Walking through the center on that quiet Saturday morning, Stolen and O'Connor showed me the kitchen where thousands of meals are prepared every year, and the cafeteria where several high chairs sat lined up against the back wall. They showed me the day care center and the classroom, which serve children during their temporary stays here, and rooms where volunteers and staffers conduct restraining-order clinics, art therapy classes and resume-building programs. We said hello to four women, one pregnant, who sat on a common-area couch watching the news.

"Not enough people know about the far-reaching wraparound services we do," Stolen said. "Part of my job is to try to adjust that belief out there that this place is just about crises, and to let people know that this is also a place where folks gain control of their lives, and where they are empowered with the tools and confidence they need to move forward."

It's a crucial time; the center, and other shelters all across the city, face tremendous demand. The budget is extremely tight; dips in fundraising in recent years have taken a toll. O'Connor has been in charge for less than a year, and is winning strong reviews, but she came in following a three-year period in which the leadership was in transition. She arrived to find the center's shelter for women and children constantly at capacity.

"It used to ebb and flow," she said. "It doesn't ebb much anymore. It just flows."

That could be a sign that more victims are seeking help. But it also underscores the vast scope of domestic violence in our community. It's a tragedy that the Julian Center estimates occurs within more than 21,000 Indianapolis families each year.

Stolen understands. On a very personal level.

I've known the 57-year-old Indianapolis resident for several years, and we've shared many long conversations about work and life and kids, but it wasn't until last week that he shared the story of his upbringing in Northern Iowa. It's a story dominated by the sad legacy of his late father, a man "who had a gigantic heart but also a drinking problem." A drinking problem that turned violent, almost like clockwork, weekend after weekend.

"I was afraid to be home," Stolen said. "But I was also afraid to not be home, because of what he might do to someone else."

It usually started when the laughter of those first drinks faded and an ugliness took its place. He'd demand something — food or attention — and the response wouldn't come fast enough. A glass would be broken, or the phone might be pulled out of the wall. The threats would follow, threats that the house would be burned down. A gun would sometimes be waved. His mom took more punches than anyone.

For Stolen, it eventually led to nearly two decades of estrangement from his father, a period that ended not long before his father died a few years ago. He'd made his peace by then and found a way to move on, he said. All these years removed from that home in Iowa, Stolen insists the memories no longer hurt. "Believe me, I am not a wreck," he said. "I figured all this out, and I forgave him."

But those memories made the decision to join the Julian Center an easy one. There's a lot of work to do; the center is in serious need of contributions, volunteers and ambassadors. This is heavy lifting, and Stolen knows it. As we walked through the center's buildings on Saturday, he pointed to that second-floor classroom and talked about the children who spend their days inside it. Then he talked about the chance to play a role, alongside O'Connor, in helping some of the city's most vulnerable residents reclaim their lives.

"I feel like I have a chance to do something big here," he said. "In a way, I feel like I'm able to do something about something that, all those years ago, I felt powerless about."

You can reach me at matthew.tully@indystar.com or at Twitter.com/matthewltully.

To help the Julian Center: For information on how to contribute money, food or other items, or to volunteer with the Julian Center, visit the organization's website: www.juliancenter.org, or call (317) 941-2200.