I Think It's Time

I Think It’s Time… I strongly believe that each person has a story. The telling of that story belongs to the person who owns the experience, timing included. I’ve learned throughout the years how to tell my story in pieces, to the right audience, at the best time. Notice how I didn’t say right time; I said best. It is important to note that I don’t know if it’s the right time, but I do know it is the best time to share my story in way I haven’t before. It’s difficult sometimes to share these stories, not just for me but for almost every human being who has been abused, exploited, and/or trafficked. We have families who are impacted. It is natural to seek blame, to put is somewhere that feels good and decisive. “There (cue hand brush) that mess is sitting firmly where it makes me feel most comfortable.” It’s not that simple though, and in my case the answer is no. No, my actual parents didn’t know. Not even the one living in the same home as me. Human Trafficking and Exploitation is getting a lot of attention right now. Sensational stories flood the news, and certainly those stories have validity; however, it raises the question of what every day trafficking looks like. This is where my story comes in. I really only know how to do this one way; rip the band aid off first. I was trafficked from the ages of seven to nine by my mom’s second husband in the Central Florida area. Okay. Everyone breathe. I’ll breathe with you. We’re good as we can be. I’m as good as I can be. Let’s continue. I’ve been open for many years now about the fact that I was sexually abused as a child. However, the realization that it goes beyond just sexual abuse took me longer to discover. I was trafficked, but I did not know it right away. In my early twenties, when I was figuring out the sexual abuse piece of my childhood, I was able to work through most of what occurred. It was difficult, but I did the best that I could. Still, there was something underlying. Something that I couldn’t identify; I couldn’t quite touch with words but something I could feel. My memories made me think of something like a trade or an exchange but without a way to say it. However, there is always a moment that makes you realize what has happened. Not what you think happened, but what truly did. One day I’m was working at my job as a Self-Storage Facility Manager. I’m in my mid 30’s so it’s around 2010. In walks a lady who wants to look at storage units. As we look around she hits me with a question. “Do you ever worry about Human Traffickers storing a person they are trafficking in a storage unit”? My mind does not go anywhere near my own story. Instead it jumps to confusion. “Storing People? No,” I say “We have security measures here that would guard against something like that.” I say this because I’m trained to be professional and informative. As we return to the office she shares more with me about this Human Trafficking epidemic. She tells me that her church is hosting speakers who teach about how this occurs all over the world; the U.S. included. “You mean like that movie Taken?” I say. “Well, sort of,” she says, “but some of these kids, little kids even and older too, are being trafficked by parents, or step-parents or family members or a boyfriend…” In my head her voice trails off because a key has been inserted into a tumbler and turned. The pins are clicking open and with the first click an image is flashing in my mind. I am skipping down a sidewalk wearing one of my favorite summer dresses carrying a large jar filled with coins. The coins are jangling and beside me walks a man (older, much older), and as I skip he slips his hand up my dress and pats my bottom. One last depraved touch before we reach the car where my (big gulp because I hate calling him this, but this is my memory) stepfather stands. Things went a little hazy once the hand business started because I hoped he didn’t notice. I knew for certain I’d be in trouble and very embarrassed. I hand the jar to him, he seems annoyed. Much Older Man says “Sorry, that’s all I had.” Change. Change in a jar is what bought me. Bought my innocence, bought my life as it might have been had it never occurred. Change. In. A. Jar. You’ve got one in your house most likely. Look at it. That is what the going rate can be to purchase a child for sexual gratification. That is it. That is the absolute ground zero truth. Another click of the pins, and the realization that Much Older Man did not attempt to hide the touch from the monster who called himself my stepfather because he knew. Oh my god. He knew. My stepfather knew. This is the moment I find the words I’ve been searching for. Human Trafficking. The woman is now inviting me to her church to hear the speaker, and I just look at her. She asks me “Are you ok?” “Yes.” I am both ok, and not ok. She slides a business card across the counter with the information of her church and I tell her I might go, even though I literally have no intention of doing so. She leaves. I sit dazed. I go into the hallway behind the office and take in gulping breaths of air. I don’t know how many. I take them until I can breathe normally. I go back to the office and google search Therapists in Greenwood Indiana. I find one and get an appointment for the very next day. I go the appointment, I talk with the therapist, and I make an important decision. I decide that I do not need my story corroborated. I do not need to “run this by” anyone including my parents, siblings, or extended family. I do not need to prove this to anyone. This happened. It happened less than ten times. That is my best estimation. I don’t remember everything that occurred during that time in my life. I don’t expect to. Do you remember your second or third grade teacher? I don’t. I have one friend from that time that I remember, her name was Mary. Bad things happened at Mary’s house. It was not a safe place, so I prefer not really to even remember Mary. I digress. I don’t remember exact times, dates, faces, names, what was exchanged (sometimes drugs, occasionally just time at a bar). All of this occurred while my mom worked two or three jobs to try to keep the lights on and food in the house. It was not a good time in our lives, and this is something we’ve hashed out as a family and moved on from. I don’t mean the trafficking of course; you don’t just move on from that. You spend a lot of time in therapy and you learn to know a few things. You learn to know about an important part of pedophilia called grooming. Grooming is the very best and well-honed tool in the pedophiles, sex buyers, and trafficker’s toolbox. It’s the sweet, saccharine, salve applied to the victim to make them pliable and culpable. It is gaining permission by asking questions a child cannot possibly know the right answer to and then placing blame on that child because they said yes. It’s engaging in a game a child cannot know will lead to something dark and horrific then calling it special and secret. Learning about this tool gave me a new tool called letting go of guilt. Another new tool called you are the problem, not me. I also learned to know I am a survivor. I am not a victim. And most importantly, I learned to know there comes a time when you can choose to turn your pain into purpose. When reaching out to help another can heal you in ways you could not possibly know until you take that step. So why is now the best time? I’ve recently learned that at least two of my friends had no idea that this is the true grassroots reality of trafficking. The sensational news stories are something we talk about around the water cooler (well not right now but you get my point) or share on social media. But these stories do not represent the very real, very gritty, very scary, very ugly, and very dirty realities of everyday trafficking. I could throw a bunch of statistics at you but instead I will just share a real-life truth.

My worth as seen from a trafficker’s viewpoint: Change in a jar Pills Time spent in a bar drinking

The worth of other young women from a trafficker’s viewpoint: A shopping trip A tank of gas 20.00 A bag of marijuana A moderately expensive watch

Help is not needed where light has already been shone. Help is needed right where you may not be looking but where darkness lurks insidiously. That “hooker” may be a child (by the way, there is no such thing as a child prostitute though that language is thrown around) who only looks “old enough to make her own decisions”. And “it’s the oldest profession in the book” is just a term we use to anesthetize ourselves to an incredibly dangerous and painful world. Maybe that dark place lives within you. Lives within me. Lives within us all. Let’s start there by applying knowledge, then empathy, then altruism to the world around us. Trust me, if you cast a wide enough net you will pull in someone who has been touched by this scourge on our world. When you do, there lies the darkness onto which you have the opportunity to paint light.