A large number of children have been raised in homes where exchanging sex for money or goods is a normal part of the family culture.
A large number of children have been raised in homes where exchanging sex for money or goods is a normal part of the family culture.
“My mother was my first pimp. She used to sell me to the landlord and other men who wanted a young girl. She was a junkie I thought that was normal.”
—A survivor1
IN THIS DAY AND age, we would not be surprised to hear that some children suffer incest and sexual abuse in their own homes. Not so acknowledged, however, is the rise in sexual abuse coupled with child sex trafficking within families.
Many children fall victim to being sold by their own family members in exchange for cash, drugs, to pay off debt, or even for food. Such is the story of five-year-old Shaniya Davis, who was sold by her mother into sexual slavery as payment for a two-hundred-dollar debt. Six days after being sold, her body was found in a nearby field. An autopsy determined that she had been sexually assaulted and suffocated.2
Photo: Antoinette Davis. City of Fayetteville Police Department
“I have a friend who, as a very young child, was frequently asked by her father to ‘spend time’ with one of his buddies in the neighborhood. After the molestations, the abuser would always provide this girl’s father with a big meal. This child was being trafficked in exchange for a steak dinner!”
—Alisa Jordheim, founder, Justice Society
A large number of trafficked children have been raised in homes where exchanging sex for money or goods is a normal part of the family culture. Because many of these children are indoctrinated into sexual exploitation at very young ages, they do not recognize having sex with adults as abnormal behavior.
“A fourteen-year-old girl suspected of prostitution told police her mother and grandmother, both convicted prostitutes, forced her to sell her body to pay their living expenses.”3
When a controlling member of a family is the trafficker, it can be difficult for a child to leave the home or report the abuse. Fear and shame are two primary silencers that stop children from seeking help. In some cases, family members will guilt the child into a sense of duty to provide income and support the family. In other cases, a child may be threatened with violence or death against herself or other family members. Emotional attachments to younger siblings can create fear in a child that if she leaves, her siblings will be forced into trafficking in her stead.
“I have been pimped all my life, used by my family, and sold to any Johnny-come-lately I wanted to run every day, but what would I do with a sixth-grade education and make the money I was making, and who is to say they would let me walk like that?”
—Chicago ex-pimp4
As is common in sexual abuse cases, many children fear that reporting the crime will either break up the family, or provoke anger or repercussions from other family members. The trafficker may also convince the child that she has willingly engaged in prostitution and will be arrested if she reports the activity.5
“Although most adolescents reported telling an adult about the abuse, more than 75 percent of these adults were not concerned or supportive about their situation.”6
Children who endure commercial sexual exploitation frequently fall through the cracks of our social system. They are commonly misidentified by frontline workers, including emergency room staff, teachers, and counselors. Law enforcement officers have the particularly challenging task of identifying whether a victim is an adult or a minor. To complicate matters, many traffickers will provide girls with false identification and instruct them to say they are older than eighteen.7 When interviewed by law enforcement, girls are often unwilling or unable to identify as victims. They also can be difficult and evasive due to their distrust of authority figures. This misidentification by adults and distrust from the girls creates a chasm that hampers many youth from getting the help they need.
“When youth are approached by traffickers, pimps, exploiters, they don’t see much difference between their purpose of bringing finances into their foster home and bringing money to traffickers, pimps, exploiters’ stable.…”8
—Child survivor
While familial trafficking is not new, the recognition and reporting of this crime is still in developmental stages. Shared Hope International’s 2009 National Report on Domestic Minor Sex Trafficking reported, “Trafficking of children by family members was noted frequently in the assessments done by Shared Hope International. Due to a lack of training and understanding of human trafficking by state child protection service agencies, professionals often classified the abuse under a different label, such as child sexual abuse. This mislabeling of child sexual abuse instead of child sex trafficking results in the commercial component of the crime being lost.”9
Slowly, but surely, the tide is changing, and recognition of this crime is growing. Many states are now passing legislation requiring child sex trafficking awareness training for all frontline workers, including law enforcement agencies, public schools, and child care services. Additionally, Senate Bill S.1118—Child Sex Trafficking Data and Response Act of 2013, introduced in June 2013, would require that foster care and adoption assistance agencies officially document any child who has been identified as a victim of sex trafficking.10 Legislation is a good first step, but it’s not enough in itself. We must be diligent to ensure that that once laws are passed, they are effectively put into action.
“‘I actually can go to college now!’ One of our twelve-year-olds shrieked after spendingfour days struggling and fighting over not understanding negative numbers. Days ago, not only had she given up on learning the concept, but her frustration led her to believe she was stupid and that she should just run away and go back to the life because she didn’t feel she was good at anything else. The joy that erupted from her after doing ten problems correct went so much deeper than a grade on a paper. It allowed her to hope in a future again—a future separate from slavery. She is now fourteen years old and on track with her education!”
—Melissa Hermann, executive director, Courage House
You are about to read Kate’s story of being trafficked by her own family. After eight years of captivity, 2013 was a landmark year for Kate. She was officially out of the “life” longer than she was in it—2013 began her ninth year of freedom. We rejoice with Kate for the milestone!
It has been almost a year since we moved from Oregon to Colorado. Once Mom quit using drugs, Dad didn’t come to visit anymore, so she didn’t see any reason for us to stay. We moved, and she found a boyfriend pretty quickly. She didn’t seem to mind fulfilling the promise she made to my grandparents that she would send me back to Oregon every summer to spend time with Dad’s family. She probably wanted time alone with her boyfriend anyway. Now the year has passed, and I am finally going back to visit.
Butterflies stir in my stomach as I board the plane to visit Grandma’s. It’s my first time flying alone. I feel grown-up and responsible, and a little nervous. Not many seven-year-olds fly by themselves. I straighten to appear as tall as possible. The two-and-a-half-hour flight seems like only five minutes as daydreams of summer fast-forward me to Oregon.
My eyes search the crowded waiting room for Grandma—a tall, slender woman with kind eyes. I spot her waving and run to greet her. I miss seeing her often like I used to. We walk to the parking garage. My cousin, Joe, waits in the car. As soon as I open the door, he springs over the backseat, wrapping his arms around my neck in an excited hug. He’s the same age as me, but he has always been shorter and smaller. We laugh and sing on the hour-long drive home from the airport.
The dogs greet us with happy barks, and Aunt Lisa and Uncle George spread open their arms for hugs. Aunt Lisa seems so much happier since she married Uncle George two years ago. I had never met any of her previous husbands, just Joe’s real dad and Uncle George, but the family says they like Uncle George best. They say he’s a hard worker. I like him better, too. He’s a lot nicer than Joe’s dad. Joe’s dad always yelled at us and hardly came home, but neither Joe nor I have seen him since he and Aunt Lisa got divorced. Uncle George is different. He gives us ice cream and lets us watch movies. If we do something wrong, he doesn’t yell; he just helps us get it right the next time. Joe even calls him “Dad” sometimes.
Summer is here, and the family is finally together. In a few days, I could be riding horses with Aunt Lisa. Maybe she will let me ride her horse again while she trains new colts, I think. She trusts me with the horses. It’s one thing I know I can do right. At home, I never do anything right. Every day, Mom’s boyfriend yells at me for something. Mom doesn’t like it when he yells, but she never does anything to stop it. I imagine the wind blowing on my face as I ride along the pasture. It feels so free. I feel so confident and in control when the reins are in my hands and my feet in the stirrups.
After dinner, Grandpa makes a bed on the floor for us kids to sleep on. He always sets us up in the living room so we can fall asleep watching movies.
Seven. The age of Popsicles. The age of slumber parties. The age of innocence.
Everyone is asleep, but Lion King isn’t over yet. I roll over and feel a hairy arm touch mine. My eyes want to open, but fear demands that they remain closed. Who is lying next to me?
I yawn and readjust, hoping to deter the hand that grazes me intrusively. I pretend like I am waking. Uncle George smiles at me.
“I need to go to the bathroom.” I get up, walk to the bathroom, and close the door behind me, but the doorknob turns and the door pushes open.
“Shhhh,” he says, “everyone is sleeping.”
He closes the door behind him and turns the lock. I don’t speak, but I am screaming loudly inside. No words escape my mouth, only tears from my eyes. His hands invade my body, but his actions trespass my soul. There is blood on my clothes—stains that will be tossed and forgotten. There is pain and fear—memories that forever stain the paradigm in which I view the world.
“You don’t want anyone to know what a naughty girl you are. If they know what you did, they’ll be disgusted with you. Better you don’t say a word, unless you want to be punished.” He grabs me, and I jerk away from him. He laughs. “This isn’t even the beginning, little girl. Now stop actin’ like you didn’t ask for it. You think you can just sleep on the floor right in front of me? You think I’ve been playin’ games with you, buyin’ you toys and candy, expectin’ nothing from you in return? Grow up! You wanted me. You still want me.”
I don’t understand. What did I do wrong? What did I say to him? Did I want it? NO! I never said … but I did ask him to play games with me. I did ask him to buy me candy.
“Shhhh,” he says, “shhhhh. Everyone is sleeping.”
My soul slept that night. In fact, it hibernated for the next nine years.
Nine. The age of fear. The age of silence. The age of obedience.
I step off of the plane and hug Grandma, breathing in the familiar scent of her homemade laundry detergent. I can’t wait to see my cousins. I hope Uncle George won’t be there when we arrive. The dogs bark, running in circles. The pitter-patter of their little paws prancing on the tile welcomes us in as we arrive. Aunt Lisa and Uncle George stand up from the couch, stretching out their arms. Uncle George whispers in my ear as he leans in for a hug, “Don’t you worry, hun, we’ve got all kinds of plans for you kids this summer.” My stomach turns as I swallow the memories of the years before.
“Joe!” I run to greet him. He looks the same—tiny build and straight blond hair. He stares at me. I hug him with both arms, but his body is stiff. Something is not right.
Grandpa makes us a bed on the floor in the living room, as he always does. I ask him if I can have my own sleeping bag. A Bug’s Life is playing, and Joe and I are still awake. Everyone else is asleep. Everyone—except for Uncle George. He walks into the living room and waves for Joe and me to follow him. He wants both of us? Has he touched Joe before, too? I really don’t want to go with him, but I am afraid to refuse. We follow him into the office, and he closes the door. I clench my eyelids tightly and hold my breath. My ears feel plugged up as I try to brace myself for what I know is coming.
I wait.
For my clothes to be discarded. For the intrusive hand.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand … ten one-thousand.
I open my eyes.
Uncle George is sitting in the computer chair, next to Joe.
“You know where you are going?” he asks.
“Got it,” says Joe.
“Good. You’ve been working with me almost two years now, and I expect you to remember what I taught you. Stay in control and give them exactly what they want.”
I watch silently, relieved he hasn’t touched me. What does he mean “give them exactly what they want?” Who? What has Joe been doing working with Uncle George? I thought Uncle George was a ranch hand and Aunt Lisa has been home-schooling Joe.
He closed the door, so it is coming. It has to be coming.
“We’re going to teach you a game.” Uncle George says with a smile. “All you have to do is exactly what we tell you, and there won’t be any problems.” We? So Joe is in on this now, too?
Joe maneuvers the mouse, typing various things into the computer. The screen pops up. “Teen Chatroom.” Joe creates the name “2young4u.” Immediately, the computer screen is filled with five or six pop-up chats.
“Hey, baby, age/sex/location?”
“9, female, Oregon.”
“Is 45 too old?”
“45 is perfect.”
He’s obviously done this before. He responds to the messages robotically, without thought.
“How young?”
“9 too young?” Joe responds.
“Is 55 too old?”
“55 is perfect.”
“I can take some.”
Uncle George is smiling. “OK, kiddo, we’re going to take some pictures.” First he snaps a couple of me just standing there. “Smile,” he says. A tear forms in my left eye. I wipe it away before he notices. He takes pictures of me in my T-shirt and underwear, in all sorts of sitting and standing positions.
Joe is still typing away at the computer. “All right, George, they want the pictures.”
“All right, honey, you can put your clothes back on now.”
He has pictures. What is he going to do with my pictures? Why did he make me do those things?
Uncle George removes the memory card from the camera and inserts it into the computer. I stand behind my cousin and read the multiple chats on the computer screen. “Can I see a picture?” one person asks.
“Sure,” Joe types, “as long as you are sure you don’t mind that I’m only 9.”
“I don’t mind. I like it.”
Joe e-mails a picture of me to this stranger. “Can I go to the bathroom?” I ask, hoping to escape the room, even if only for a moment.
“No. I want you to read everything Joe types. You need to learn how to do this.”
The stranger asks, “Have you ever had sex before?”
Joe types, “Yes.”
“And you liked it?”
“I liked it,” Joe types.
“Mmm, bad girl!” the stranger replies.
The words Joe types cause the anxiety in my belly to rise up into my throat. I can feel more tears coming, but I won’t release them. I can’t let them know how I feel. I remember the first time. It was here. In that bathroom. I didn’t like it. I hated it. I still hate it. I hate that bathroom. I hate Uncle George. I hate this room. I hate those pictures. I hate myself.
“Send me more pictures. Less clothes this time.”
Joe sends the pictures.
I don’t sleep all night. Instead, I am forced to stay awake reading messages in a chat room. Messages that make me feel dirty. Messages that make me feel like an object. Messages that make me feel ashamed. Messages from me. Dirty words. Dirty pictures. I am a dirty girl. Joe’s words masquerade as my words. He types in my place, offering my body to the strangers he encounters online. They think they are communicating with me, but my cousin is actually the one chatting.
“Are you alone?” a stranger asks.
“No,” Joe types, “My cousin is here, too.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s nine, too.”
“I want you to have sex with him, and take pictures. Send them to me,” says the stranger.
Joe looks at Uncle George, who says, “Do it. I’ll type.”
“Please, don’t make me do this,” I beg. Uncle George turns around in his chair and slaps me across the face. Everything in my face feels numb. I wish my whole body felt numb.
My body hurts. I can’t think anymore. All I want to do is sleep. Uncle George throws me a wet washcloth. “Here,” he says, “Clean yourself with this.” He sends the pictures to the stranger.
“Who took these?” the stranger asks.
“My uncle did.”
“Really? He’s OK with it? Do you have sex with him, too?”
“Yes.”
“You should have sex with him, too. Record it and take pictures. I want to see it.”
Uncle George always does what the men in the chat room want. When they want pictures, he takes them; videos, he shoots them. I don’t even know how I feel anymore. I feel how he tells me to feel. I do what he tells me to do. I can’t think for myself, act for myself, or even dress myself anymore. I have lost myself to a role that I didn’t audition for.
The next night is the same. Joe types. Uncle George watches, delegating if necessary. Uncle George starts calling me “slave.” He doesn’t call me “honey” or by my name anymore, just “slave.” Joe calls me “slave,” too. It’s like he doesn’t know me anymore. He acts as if we were never close. He looks at me with disgust and talks to me like I’m a bad dog. What happened? I used to have fun with Joe. We laughed together and played games. He stood up for me when I got made fun of and made me feel special. Something is wrong with him now, and it scares me.
I get in the shower, turning the knob almost all the way to hot. I scrub my body vigorously with the rough side of a sponge. Maybe if I scrub hard enough, I will feel clean again.
I sit in the corner on the bathroom floor and cry. I still feel dirty; nothing makes me feel clean. My skin stings, my body is sore, and my mind is numb.
I wake up early and sneak outside to call Mom. We don’t normally talk much while I’m visiting Oregon. She figures no news is good news, and I figure that there’s not a whole lot to say. Sometimes she will call to ask Grandma if everything is going OK, but we don’t usually talk to each other. She answers the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey Mom, it’s me, Kate.”
“Hi honey. Is everything OK?” As soon as the words come out of her mouth, I can’t speak. I try to form words, but only sobs come out. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“It’s Joe. And Uncle George. They keep making me do things I don’t want to do.”
“That’s just part of growing up, baby.”
“No, Mom. I mean bad things. Dirty things.”
“I know what you’re talking about. I read your journal last summer.”
“What?”
“I read everything. I wasn’t going to embarrass you by saying anything. After you came home from Oregon, you left your journal open on your desk in your room. I read what happened. You are just getting older. Men can’t help themselves; they’re curious. Your Uncle George didn’t mean any harm by what he did. Joe’s getting older, too, so I’m not surprised now that he’s giving you a little attention. His hormones are probably just a little crazy. It’s a normal part of growing up, honey. Boys are sexual. It only gets worse as they get older. You’ll be OK. It’ll help you to grow up a little. But listen, I have to go. Don’t worry so much. Try to go with it. It makes everything easier and more enjoyable. I’ll see you in August!”
She read my journal? How could she know this was happening and not say anything? Why would she make me come out here to visit if she knew? Normal? Did this happen to her, too? I don’t understand. Is my whole life going to be like this? I don’t think I can do this. Suddenly, I feel dizzy. My stomach tightens, and I bend over, getting sick all over the flower beds.
“What are you doing out here?” Uncle George yells, startling me to a standing position. I stand in front of the phone, hoping he won’t see it.
“I felt sick, so I came out to get some fresh air.”
“Get inside. Now!”
Grandma is sitting in her recliner in the living room. “Are you OK, sweetie? You look a little pale. You’re too thin. You know, if you don’t stay healthy, you won’t be able to do the things you love, like riding horses with your Aunt Lisa. Sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
I don’t want anything to eat. I’m sick.
“Mom, I don’t want to go to Oregon this year. Please don’t make me go. Can’t I stay home?”
“Sweetie, that’s ridiculous. You have to spend time with your dad’s side of the family, and you love riding horses with your Aunt Lisa. This is the only time you see them besides the three weeks you spend there for Christmas vacation.”
“I don’t want to go.” I do want to ride horses, but not if it means staying in the same house as Uncle George and Joe.
“Well, you’re going. And you’ll have a great time.”
My nerves keep my stomach in constant distress. I throw up every day for at least a week before leaving. I don’t eat. I can’t eat. Maybe if I don’t eat, I’ll starve. Then this will end. I cry myself to sleep every night. I pray to die.
The summer of twelve is here.
The age of acceptance. The age of submission. The age of dissociation.
I board the plane. My body trembles involuntarily, and goose bumps rise on my arms and legs. The flight attendant asks me if I am all right. I nod my head, though part of me wants to ask her if it is possible for me to get off of the plane. As the plane takes off, my anxiety bubbles like a volcano from the base of my stomach, until the little bit of breakfast I managed to eat erupts from my mouth into the aisle. The people around me are holding their noses and gagging. God, I am disgusting. They know I’m dirty. No one wants me around. Just Uncle George. Just Joe.
When I arrive in Oregon, I don’t see Grandma. I sit and wait for her. Large hands press down on my shoulders from behind. “You ready, little slave?” I feel the hot breath of his whisper in my ear. A chill goes through my body, and suddenly I am cold. I stand up.
“Daddy missed you,” he says.
“Is this your dad?” the flight attendant asks me. I nod. Why can’t I just say no?
We walk out to the parking garage. Joe is waiting by the car. He’s taller than he was last year, but he’s just as skinny, and he’s still shorter than me. “You’re gonna have lots of fun this summer, little slave,” Uncle George says with a laugh. Joe looks back at me but doesn’t say anything. His eyes seem crueler than the year before. He appears aloof. We drive for more than an hour before I realize that we aren’t going to Grandma’s house. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“We’re going to the ranch house.”
“Aren’t we going to Grandma’s for a few days first?”
“No,” Uncle George says, “She’s sick. Worse than she was before. Some days she can’t remember who her own kids are. Bringing you to see her would just confuse her more. The doctors say she has Alzheimer’s. It’ll only get worse. She probably already forgot you.” Is she going to die? Will I ever get to see her again? I try to forget the way things were. I know they’ll never be the same. Staring out the window, I try to focus on the fields, the shops, the trees—anything but Grandma. Still, I cannot forget her gentle voice. “Honey, I love you,” she told me every day. I know she does. She would tuck my little flyaway wisps of hair behind my ears. She couldn’t forget me. She wouldn’t forget me. Would she?
Uncle George stops at a convenience store and fills the truck with gas. When he gets back in the car, he throws me two ice cream sandwiches. “Eat these, little girl. Nobody wants to be with a scrawny woman.”
We drive another hour or so. I keep hearing Uncle George’s words. Nobody wants to be with a scrawny woman.
But I’m not a woman. I am twelve years old. And I don’t want to be with anybody. I just want to be alone. I just want to see Grandma. I just want to disappear.
Uncle George takes my bags, and I never see them again. He walks me to the guest house. There’s a twin bed with a sheet on it and a dresser with broken drawers. Inside the drawers are some clothes—thin, sheer material in red and black, and a cheerleader uniform. There is a box in the bottom drawer. In it is a pair of handcuffs and other items. The windows are broken, and the room is decorated with pictures of horses, cowboys, coiled ropes, and horseshoes. The carpet is dirty, and there are spiders and cobwebs along the corners. It smells musty and is cold.
“All right, you little cum-slut slave, we’re going to have some fun with you. After today, you won’t ever forget that you’re a fucking whore. I want you to always remember what you are. Joe’s going to be your master now. You call him ‘Master.’ Call him anything else, we’ll beat the shit out of you. Got it?” I nod. “I’ll be around, but when I’m not, Joe owns you.” Owns me?
“And I sure as hell know you ain’t gonna tell nobody about this. You get to talk when one of us tells you that you can talk. Any questions?”
I shake my head.
“Good. Now come with us. We are going to get something to eat. We have big plans for you later.”
I stare down at the burger and fries in front of me. I’m not hungry. “I can’t wait to see how this goes,” Uncle George says to Joe. “I have a feeling we’re going to be in business here real quick.”
I push the fries around my plate with a fork. Nobody wants to be with a scrawny woman. Uncle George puts a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and we head to the truck.
“That’s a nice horse trailer you got there, cowboy. I bet that cost you a pretty penny,” a stranger remarks as Uncle George unlocks the truck.
“Yeah, it’s real nice. Wasn’t my check, though. The perks of being the main cowhand for a rich man.”
“Must be nice.” The dusty stranger looks over the trailer again.
“Like to take a look inside?”
“Sure would.” They disappear and don’t come out of the trailer for ten minutes or so. When they emerge from the trailer, the stranger gives Uncle George a hard pat on the shoulder and winks at me. “I’ll be seeing you a little later, darlin’.” My stomach churns, and I feel the urge to throw up. I have to find a bathroom, quick. I’ve got to get rid of this nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Thirty minutes later, we pull in to the county fairgrounds. Trucks and trailers are parked everywhere. Horses are tied up to fence posts, and every available stall is full. Lawn chairs and coolers are set up all over the place. Everyone is wearing boots and buckles, and most men have a faded circle in their back pocket from where they keep their chew.
“Don’t worry, slave. You’ll get used to rodeo,” Joe says. “People help each other out around here. Everybody’s got a little something that somebody else has need of. You’ll find that out real quick. Tradin’ is an easier way of life.”
Slave. The word triggers memories of everything Uncle George said: “I want you to always remember what you are.” I remember the warnings he gave me. My heart beats rapidly, and I suddenly feel faint. It seems that every other man who passes by is looking me up and down, giving me a nod or a wink.
“Good god, bitch! Stop shaking!” Joe mumbles at me.
“Hey there, cowboy!”
“Hi, Pete.” Joe shakes his hand. “You here to shoe the horses?”
“Yes, sir,” he says with a wink. The way he is looking at me makes me feel like I need a shower.
Joe grabs my hand and walks me to the other side of the trailer. “Pete’s going to shoe the horses, and when he’s done, you are going to pay him.”
“But I don’t have any money.” My eyes scan the area. I want to run but see nothing but dirt in every direction. Where would I go?
“You don’t need any. You just let him take you into the trailer. There’s a bed in there. You do whatever he tells you to do and act like you like it. You remember what you are now, don’t you? You are a sex slave. Ain’t nothing goin’ to change about that. You are going to learn to like this. Understand?”
I couldn’t think of anything to do but to cry out, “Joe!”
“Stop it. I am not Joe to you anymore. I am your master! Don’t look at me like that. Just do it.”
“What did he do to you?” I ask. “Uncle George is a monster! Did he rape you, too?”
Before I can react, Joe knocks me to the ground and spits on my face. “You say anything like that to me ever again and I’ll beat you like the worthless piece of shit you are. Now get up off the ground, slave. I’m nothing like you. I’m the one in control here!”
Kicking the dirt, he walks over to the step that leads to the trailer door and takes a seat. His eyes don’t stop watching me. I won’t let him see me cry. I pick up a rock from the ground and throw it as hard as I can into the dust. For a half second, I feel better. I pick up another, chucking it as hard as I can. Adrenaline is pumping through my body. Hate and anger like I have never felt before form a burning sensation in my stomach. My mind is filled with violent thoughts and words I’ve never spoken aloud.
“He’s ready for you.” Joe grabs my arm and shoves me up the step. The door slams shut behind me. Twenty minutes pass. The farrier steps out of the horse trailer. I pick up my clothes from the floor. My body is stiff. One of the straps to my halter top is torn, and it no longer ties around my neck. I search the trailer and find a T-shirt in one of the drawers. I pull it over my head. Searching for a brush, I try to comb my matted hair with my fingers. Looking into the mirror, I don’t recognize my own eyes.
The door swings open. It’s Joe. “You have two minutes,” he says. “Someone else is here to see you.”
I could run or fight, but I don’t have the energy. I have no idea where I would go. Home is so far away. I climb back on the bed, pull up the comforter and hide beneath the covers. I bury my head into a pillow. I close my eyes and wish I were dead. God, where the hell are you? What have I done to deserve this? The door swings open. A tall, slender man appears. His face and clothes are dirty, and he smells like horse manure. “What are you doin’ under the blankets?” he snaps. “Didn’t you know I was comin’? Get up outta there.” He spits a mouthful of chew into an empty beer can that he picked up from the floor.
I pull down the covers a little and sit up. “How ’bout you hurry the hell up?” His red eyes are glaring at me, and his right hand yanks the covers off of the bed and onto the floor. “You ain’t gonna give me no problems. I’ll be sure o’ that!” Knocking me on my back with his forearm, he puts his weight on my chest with his knee.
I can hardly breathe; his knee presses hard against my ribs. One hard swallow and my emotions are gone. I feel pressure against my body. His mouth moves. I know he is talking to me, but I can’t hear what he is saying. I smell dirt, sweat, and tobacco. “Answer me, cunt!” His fist blows against my jaw. I taste blood. “You must make your family sick!” I never thought about what they think of me. Mom doesn’t care. Aunt Lisa never says anything. I’m just a whore now. Nobody really cares. Just Joe and Uncle George.
“Thanks for nothin’, bitch! I guess I’ll be seein’ more of you since I reckon your man is gonna be wanting more of this,” he says, holding up a clear bag of white powder. They did this for drugs? Am I gonna have to do this every time they need more drugs? Every time the horses need shoeing? Every time they can’t pay for something?
Rodeo days turn into rodeo weeks. We travel to many places. The names all blur together. Rodeo weeks become rodeo months. I stop keeping track of the days—it seems easier that way. I stop counting the people. “A lot” seems like a lot less than if I had to say an actual number. As the days and numbers grow longer and larger, I become further dissociated from reality. The only truth I know is that I cannot trust anyone. Every imaginable person passes through the door of the trailer. Young faces and gray beards. Cracked hands and painted fingernails. Business suits and cowboy boots. A county drug dealer and a county officer. At the end of each summer, I return to Colorado, each passing year with a little more hatred toward humanity and a lot less self-respect.
Uncle George drives down the farm road that leads to the ranch house, and I recognize where we are going. Aunt Lisa has a big meal prepared to welcome us home. Some of the people Uncle George works with are there, as well as some of the neighbors and their kids. Everyone gathers around picnic tables outside. They talk about their horses, cattle, and the weather. Kids are jumping into the pool with messy faces. The older kids are playing a game of hide-and-seek.
“Look at you,” Aunt Lisa says, “You hardly look fifteen! You still have lots of growing to do!” I’ve got no growing to do. I have zero plans on gaining a pound or starting to look any more like a woman. I wish she would leave me alone about the way I look!
“Come on, Kate, I want to show you something!” Joe grabs me by the wrist and pulls me after him. We walk down the gravel road to one of the hay barns, where three older teenage boys are waiting inside.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. I didn’t know you were really serious!” one of the boys says. His eyes are wide, and his steps are shaky. He’s smiling.
“All right, slave, do whatever they want. If you mess up, I’ll know. I’ll be watching.” Joe whispers. I look over at the boys. The smallest of the three is much bigger than I am. He has long, unruly hair and looks very strong for his age. He looks about sixteen. The other two boys look older. Eighteen, maybe. I walk inside, and two of the three boys escort me farther into the barn. Joe waits outside.
When they leave, I am too weak to stand. Joe comes back inside the barn. “Get up!” he demands. “Come around the back with me. I’ll take you to the bathroom and you can clean yourself up. You look like a ho. You don’t want everyone to know how loose you are.”
I turn on the shower and step in. The water pressure stings my skin. My tears are lost with the shower water, disappearing down the drain. I hear people talking and laughing outside of the door. The company is still here. I hear the boys from the barn. They are laughing about how scared I looked. I hate them. I will never let anyone think I am scared ever again. I can handle them. I can do this. That’s the last time I cry. I’m fine. My body trembles. They didn’t hurt me. I apply makeup to cover the bruises on my face, neck, and chest. I don’t care. I dress myself in the clothes laid out for me on the counter. Laying my towel on the ground, I curl myself up on the floor and try to rest. I feel safer in the bathroom with the door locked.
My body jolts at the sound of banging on the door. “Kate, are you still in there? Open the door!” It’s Aunt Lisa. I am relieved to hear her voice. I’ve always been close to her, and I know I can tell her what happened. She won’t listen to anything I say about Uncle George, since he is her husband, or Joe, since he is her son, but I know she cares more about me than those boys—they’re not even family.
I crack the door slightly, giving her just enough room to slide in. “What is going on?” she asks. “Why are you in here? Have you been crying?” I remember my promise and refuse to cry, but I can’t find my voice. “What’s wrong, honey? You can talk to me.”
“Those boys out there—Joe’s friends. They raped me.”
Her face looks stern. “Rape is a strong word. You shouldn’t use that word. I’m sure that’s not what happened. If you tell anyone about this, you could be taken from the ranch. You would never be able to ride horses again, and I know how much you would hate that. And you know the family would hate you if you said anything. It would ruin our family.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Just don’t let them stay the night, please.”
“I won’t. But you have to come out of the bathroom.”
She swore she wouldn’t let them stay the night, but she let them anyway. She didn’t keep her promise, but I am keeping mine. They will not hurt me anymore. I’m through crying. I can do this. I walk to the liquor cabinet and drink straight from the bottle of Jack. I’ll be fine. I see the boys again. There are other guys there, too. This time, I give them exactly what they want. I don’t fight them. This time it is easier.
It’s getting late. A man in a police uniform walks into the guest house. I think he is going to arrest me and take me away from the ranch, or at least arrest Joe. For a moment, I panic at the thought of freedom. But he doesn’t arrest anyone. He’s here for sex, just like everyone else.
The next morning, I wake up alone. I am completely naked, and I have a massive headache. My muscles are sore, and I have bruises everywhere. There’s booze in my hair and written across my abdomen in lipstick is, “Fuck-whore slave.” I remember the party. The guys. The cop. No one will ever believe me if I try to tell them. I have no one to talk to. I don’t think I can do this anymore. God, I want to kill myself!. Where’s that bottle of Jack?
Sixteen. The age of surrendered hope. The age of selfish sacrifice. The age of self-hatred.
“You know why we’re here?” Uncle George asks me. I nod. “I have a new assignment for you, slave. This week, I want you making friends with some of these young girls out here. We’re going to come home with a bigger family than what we came with.” The thought of bringing anyone else into this hell makes me dizzy. I don’t think I can do it. I try to remember what it feels like to be innocent. These girls look so normal. They’re happy. They have friends. Families. Dreams.
“I want you to bring at least one girl back with you tonight,” Uncle George says.
“How am I supposed to make friends with one of them? I don’t think they will want to come with me.”
“You wanna turn all the tricks yourself? Or do you want to have a break? You’ll figure it out, or you’ll work for two.” He looks at Joe and says, “Show her how it’s done.”
“Come on, let’s take a walk.” Joe says. We walk around the campgrounds. There are horse trailers, trucks, and RVs everywhere. Young kids with ropes and cowboy boots are running around doing rope tricks. Teen girls are flirting with teen boys, and parents are busy or absent. Competitors range in age from four to forty. Dummy roping, team roping, barrel racing, calf calf tying, even bronco and bull riding. It’s a prime place for trade and a common place for meeting new people with whom to trade and travel. Families who travel the rodeo circuit live like gypsies. Common sense is a greater asset than book learning, and bringing something to the table is just as much a kid’s job as an adult’s. No one really cares whether or not you can read or write—many of the grown men and women in rodeo can’t. That’s life being raised in the saddle.
From a distance, I hear a girl screaming, “I told you, Mom. I don’t want to!”
“Damn it, Anna! You’re so selfish! You can stay home by yourself, then!”
“See that?” Joe asks. I look over. A girl about twelve or thirteen years old is arguing with her mother. “Wait until she storms off or her mom leaves her, then go up to her and talk to her. Tell her you know how she feels. Tell her that you don’t get along with your mom, either. Then ask her if she wants to hang out with us.”
I should be damned to hell for even thinking about this. I know what they are going to do with her if I bring her back. And she’s going to know, too. She’s going to hate me like I hate Joe. For the rest of her life, she will remember my face as the selfish bitch who sold her as a prostitute for my own freedom. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t think I can, but I don’t think I will make it much longer if I have to keep this up. I need a break.
I invite her to come and rodeo with us. She doesn’t hesitate to follow me and trusts everything I say to her. She tells her mom she’ll see her in a week, and that’s the end of it. God knows if she’ll ever see her again.
“Good work there, slave. I told you it wouldn’t take much to bring her in. You stay in the back of the trailer with her. Tonight you’ll take her pictures.” Joe says. “You remember how we started you? We are going to have some fun on the Internet this evening. Tomorrow we’ll start her on some real work. Let’s hit the road.”
I walk around back and step into the trailer. The little blonde is sitting there on the bed, looking around at the surroundings. Now I know why Joe made me make the bed and clean up the trailer this morning. “This is really nice,” she says.
“Yeah. It’s OK.” This feels so wrong. She has no idea. “Your mom’s not going to worry about you being with us on the road for a few weeks?”
“Nah. I leave all the time with other people. Mom’s always on the road, too. If there’s a rodeo I want to be part of and she doesn’t want to go, I just catch a ride with somebody else. She wanted me to go with her to some place up north to sell horses, anyway. I told her I didn’t want to go. She was just going to have me stay home. The neighbors are there if I need them. Anyway, she’ll be happy to have some time away from me. She always wants to spend time with her new boyfriend, and I’m just in her way. I told her I wouldn’t be back for a week or so. She probably won’t be, either.”
“Yeah, I understand. My mom has a boyfriend, too, and she doesn’t exactly worry about me. It’s Anna, right? How old are you?”
“Yeah. Anna. I’ll be thirteen in four months.”
“Cool,” I say, heat radiating throughout my face. How can I even look her in the eye? I should have never said anything to her. But if I hadn’t, I’d have a quota to meet tonight—and my body still hurts from yesterday. I didn’t ask for this. I shouldn’t have to do it, but I don’t have a choice. It’s not my fault she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. God, I need to stop thinking.
We arrive back at the ranch, and Uncle George tells Anna that she will be staying with me. He and Joe follow us to the guest house. Joe sets up the computer. “Are you ready, slave?” he asks me. Anna looks up, her face mixed with fear and confusion.
“Yeah,” I say.
He hands me the camera. “Just take the basics. We’ll be back for a little initiation in a few minutes.”
Anna’s squirming. Her eyes dart back and forth. She cracks her knuckles again and again, her foot bouncing rapidly. “Sorry, Anna, I hate to do this, but I have to take your picture. I know you probably want to run, but let’s face it—there’s nowhere for you to go. You don’t know anyone here where we are. I’m not making you do anything I haven’t already done myself. Take it from me, it’s easier if you don’t fight. I’ve earned my share of beatings, and trust me, it’s not worth it.” A chill runs down my back as I look down at the burn mark on my arm. I remember when I said “no.” They burned me with a cattle prod lying over a bed of coals. “There’s some liquor in the cabinet if you want some,” I tell her.
I take the pictures of Anna. Self-hatred burns so hot that it beckons suicide. I try not to think about what I am doing. The hope of being free has been gone so long that I am blind to any chance of escape. I feel bound to what I do. The element of choice doesn’t really occur to me. The pictures are like Braille—they offer me a different kind of vision. I remember Uncle George’s words: “You wanna turn all the tricks yourself? Or do you want to have a break?”
I picture freedom. A night of rest. A break for my body.
Anna sits. She seems strong for a twelve-year-old. She’s not crying, but her eyes are searching for understanding. “Why are you doing this? What’s going to happen to me?” she asks.
“Because I don’t have a choice. Someday you will understand.” What have I become?
Joe comes back into the room. He has me go onto the computer and log into a teen chat site. The situation is all too familiar. Only this time, I am the one typing. A screen name is created: “2young4u.” Immediately, private pop-up chats begin filling up the screen. Grown men from their twenties to sixties, all in a teen chat room looking for young girls. They tell us what they are looking for, and we create the scene for them. Schoolgirl. Father/daughter. Brother/sister. Teacher/student. Every imaginable forbidden sexual encounter. Most of the men have fantasies that include incest or rape. I learned quickly what they wanted, and Anna will learn, too. A dirty girl. They call us all kinds of things. Slave. Dirty whore. Bad girl. Baby. Bitch. And worse things I want so badly to forget. It’s hard to feel anything but worthless when you spend your days and nights being someone’s “bitch.” Your only purpose is to get them off and pretend you like it.
I’m glad I’m not the one having to act out their fantasies, at least tonight. I thought I would feel better about it. I thought I would feel free. Instead, I feel even more disgusted with myself. I’m a selfish bastard.
Uncle George walks into the room. “Slave,” he says, “Come with me.” He takes me to the trailer.
“I thought I was going to get a break. You said if I brought another girl in, I would get a break.”
“You did get a break. But now you have to catch up.” He laughs. “You have five minutes to be ready.”
Bringing Anna into the circle doesn’t give me a break. We both have to work every day and every night. Looking at her is like watching what I had blocked out for so many years. Watching her smile become a scowl, her eyes become a cesspool, and her laugh—cynical mockery. I feel the fire of her hatred for me burn like a blazing backdraft. Every time we pass, I feel like the shit of the earth. But nothing compares to the acidic self-intolerance that poisons my thoughts and corrupts my entire being. In my mind, I still long for freedom. But freedom presents itself as a noose, a bottle of pills, or the cold, hard steel of a silver bullet rather than a one-way ticket home.
Summer is finally over. Uncle George drives me to the airport. Most of the trip is made in complete silence. “Two more years and we won’t have to make anymore trips to the airport, eh, slave? You’ll travel with us, and you can leave your past behind in Colorado. We’ll take care of you here. You won’t have to worry about finding some place to go, huh?”
“Yeah.” I say. Why does this feel like my only option?
I don’t want to live forever with Joe and Uncle George, but I know I’ll never be able to get a place on my own. Mom has her boyfriend anyway. I can tell he doesn’t really want me around. He wants me to go off somewhere to college, but I don’t even think I will graduate from high school. I know what I am and what I will always be. I’m just a prostitute. Just a sex slave. A whore. No one wants me but Joe and Uncle George. Even when I’m not with them, it’s like I have a stamp on my forehead that says I was made for sex. At least I know they have a place for me to live. At least I pretty much know what to expect when I’m with them. I may not be good at anything else, but at least I’m good at sex.
Uncle George parks the truck and walks me to security. “See you at Christmas time,” he says to me, tipping his cowboy hat at the security officer.
I’m not sure I would have left Oregon if I had known that was the last time I would see Joe and Uncle George. Most people would guess I would scramble to get away from them, but after all those years, I felt comfortable with them. It’s the fear of the unknown that scares me more than anything. Life isn’t good by any definition of the word, but it is predictable. Things could be worse somewhere else. Joe always tells me it’s better to work for him and Uncle George than it is to work for somebody who isn’t family. He reminds me how well they take care of me and that others might not treat me as well. It isn’t that I like what I do—in fact, I hate it. Every day I live with the notion that I am just a worthless whore, and if ever I forget that, Joe is sure to remind me of my place and purpose in the world. But at least I have a purpose—even if it isn’t the best kind, it’s better than nothing at all. I know I can wake up each day and expect the same thing. I don’t have to guess what is going to happen to me; I know. That makes me feel like I have some kind of control over my life. At the end of the night, no matter who I have been with, I know where I am going to end up—in the trailer or on the ranch, and that is the closest thing to peace I can find. After all I’ve been through, Uncle George and Joe have never left me. I can trust them.
When I return to Colorado, I can’t stop thinking about Anna. She was a normal kid, and I messed her up. She could have grown up to have a normal life—a job and a family, but now she’ll never know that. Uncle George convinces Anna’s mom she will be successful with him. He can take her to rodeos and allow her to participate in competitions while Aunt Lisa home-schools Anna and Joe. I traded Anna in for my own freedom, and the worst part is, I’m still not free. I never got my end of the deal.
I start doing coke to help me cope. It makes it easier for me to forget what I don’t want to remember. It keeps me up all night, then during the day, I just sleep. If I go to class, I sleep through it. One of my teachers expresses some concerns she has, after a world geography class.
“Kate, are you doing OK?” she asks. She stares, waiting for a response.
“Kate!”
I stare down at my hands, picking at the hangnails on my fingers.
I don’t hear anyone call me. I am busy in thought, dissociated from the present. Finally, the teacher shakes my shoulder with her hand. “Kate, are you doing all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Kate. Nobody has called me that in a long time. Mom never calls me anything but “honey” or “baby,” and she calls everybody that. Kate. I laugh aloud.
“Is something funny?” She asks. Hardly. She has no idea who I am.
“Is there something you want from me?”
“You’re looking awfully gaunt,” she says. “And it’s a little warm for you to still be wearing sweats and a sweatshirt.”
“I get cold easily,” I say. Gaunt? Good. Maybe I will slowly disappear and everyone will just leave me alone. What does she care about me, anyway?
“I’ve seen you sitting during the lunch hour. Do you ever eat lunch?”
“Yeah, I eat lunch.” I lie. Nobody wants to be with a scrawny woman. I try to keep emotions from my face, but I’m relieved to know that I am getting smaller.
“OK,” she says.
I head out the door toward the stairwell to make my way to the next class. Suddenly, my eyes go blurry, and my head starts to spin. I wake up in the nurse’s office.
“Where’s my sweatshirt?!” I ask in a panic.
“We have it over here,” the nurse says. “Why don’t you sit up? Here, eat this granola bar. You are looking very pale.”
“Um, no thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry. Eat it. You passed out; it could very likely be from low blood sugar.”
“I don’t want it.” Her eyes narrow as she looks at me.
“How about you step over here so I can get your height and weight?”
“Do I really have to do that?”
“Yes. I would like to write your information in your report here.” I slip off of the cot and stand against the wall.
“Five-two,” she says. “Now, step on the scale, please.” I step on the scale. “Seventy-nine pounds. That’s hardly substantial for a high-school student, don’t you think, Kate?” I shrug. She picks up the phone and dials a number.
“Hello, is this Kate’s mother? Yes, I am going to need you to come to the school and pick her up. She passed out not too long ago, and we need you to take her in for a physical and psychological checkup before she returns to school. We’ll need the results before she returns to classes.”
I don’t go back to my classes, and I don’t go back to Oregon that Christmas either. After my physical and psychological examination, some information is reported to Child Protective Services. I tell them of many things, but I do not tell them about what happened to me in Oregon. When they confront my mother about my physical and emotional well-being, she is furious. Mostly out of self-preservation, I think. She seems angry at me for refusing to eat. I don’t think she understands it isn’t that simple. I know she cares about me and wants me to be healthy, but I think she is relieved when she is asked to find a place for me to go where I can receive inpatient care. She doesn’t know how to take care of me, and she doesn’t understand why I have issues. Probably because she does, too. She just can’t admit it.
I leave home and am enrolled in an inpatient care facility. Things are different from the beginning. They label everything. The bins beneath my bed have my name on them. My prescriptions, my student handbook, my locker space—everything says “Kate.” Everyone calls me “Kate.” It’s weird at first. I have to think to respond, but it feels so good to hear my name. They don’t know what I am here. They don’t know who I am. I can be Kate and they would never know the difference. I smile. It will be easy living here.
But rehab isn’t easy. No one knows anything about me. That feels so good that I am afraid to spoil it. I worry about what they will think if they knew the real me. Would it spoil my “fresh start?” I want someone to love me after they know who I am and what I have done, not when they don’t know me at all. But I am too afraid to lose the love I am experiencing for the first time.
I start counseling and am able to open up about some of the things I experienced, but I dumb it down and make it much simpler than it really was. They know I have been abused. They know I have experimented with drugs and alcohol. They know I have an eating disorder. They know Kate, but they don’t know that calling me by that name is a resurrection of my innocence and, on their part, complete ignorance of the last eight years of my life. They don’t know I am a sex slave. They don’t know that Kate hasn’t existed for the last eight years.
The longer I am there, the more I test the waters. I tell them a piece of my past and gauge their response to see if they can handle it, or if they believe me. I begin the process of treatment.
The recovery process is long, and although I am out of rehab, I am still recovering. But I am safe from Joe. I am safe from Uncle George. I wish, though, that I were safe from everyone else. From their assumptions. From their questions. From their judgment.
I live in a world where I have to hide who I am and what I have gone through. In certain settings, I have made myself vulnerable to share small bits of my story. I’m not in physical danger anymore, but the pain is often still unbearable. Certain simple things flood back the memories. Words and phrases such as “little girl,” “you get what you pay for,” “daddy,” “shhh … everyone is sleeping,” or the mention of particular places. Certain scents—manure, tobacco, and particular colognes. Certain sights—a cowboy hat, a police officer, coiled ropes, horses, chewing tobacco at the register of a gas station, the exchange of money. These things quench my spirit and pain my soul. When I am asked if I am OK, there is no appropriate response but to lie.
I cannot share my past with most people. They just wouldn’t understand. And even on the rare occasion I open up in the slightest, the response I receive is a load of questions. Simple questions. Common questions. Painful questions. “Why didn’t you tell someone?” “Why didn’t you call the police?” “Why did you go back?” “Why didn’t you turn them in?” Valid questions, I guess, to a person who doesn’t understand, but wounding questions to a victim of violence. These questions insinuate that I could have ended the abuse at any point in time, that I chose it for myself, that I never tried to escape—or worse, that it was either consensual or a lie (otherwise I would have reported it). These are the questions that simplify what is not simple at all. These are the questions of an individual who has never been beaten, broken, and brutalized; silenced, drugged, or locked up; burned, cut, or on the hollow end of a gun barrel. These are the questions of one who has never seen an officer, politician, or respected husband and father in the back room of a brothel.
It has been eight years. I am a good mother, a loving wife, and a hard worker. I have educated myself—read many books, studied many things, and even attended college. I have a good home and a good life, far from where my worst memories took place. Even so, I have no decent stories to tell my daughter about my childhood.
Uncle George went to prison for several years on separate charges but was never prosecuted for human trafficking. He has since been released from prison. I can only assume he is continuing to run underage prostitution rings. Law enforcement was informed about Joe’s involvement, but he never was charged and was excused as a minor—he never even went to trial. There have since been accusations made against him, but no convictions.
I will never be able to forget what happened throughout my childhood and adolescent years, but by God’s grace, I have been given a new life, and I won’t throw it away. Every day I become less of a slave, and I find out more about who Kate really is. No one knows my whole story. No one but me and God Himself.
Some people say that God’s love is unconditional. It’s a good thing, too, because any love with conditions would never make it past the first chapter of my life. But God has said in His Word, “I have loved you … with an everlasting love. With unfailing love I have drawn you to myself” (Jeremiah 31:3). And that is enough for me to keep on going. Someone knows me— all of me—and still loves me completely.
As much as you possibly can, try not to place victims or perpetrators into stereotypical boxes. It is important to know what to look for when trying to identify victims of sexual exploitation and perpetrators; look for signs (victim not having any identification, never being left alone, bruises, signature tattoo markings or brandings, avoidance of open communication, person being unaware of her exact location, etc.) rather than stereotypical profiles. Almost every instance of human trafficking will have at least one big element that doesn’t fit the “profile.” A few details from my own story that don’t fit the profile are that one of my traffickers was younger than I was. Also, I was trafficked in rural areas more often than I was in the city. Forms of payment were many times on the service/barter system rather than purely monetary. I was trafficked through a family member and not kidnapped off the street. My trafficker did not look or dress any different than people surrounding him. Those who purchase sex are no different than some of the people you connect with every day—they are husbands, businesspeople, men, women, young, old, and lower, middle, and upper class. Human trafficking is no respecter of persons.
Many times when people imagine a victim of human trafficking, they imagine a young, pretty, innocent-looking girl who is frail and crying out to be rescued. In the beginning, that’s how I looked, but that quickly changed. It is important to remember that victims of human trafficking have been forced to age beyond their years due to constant physical and sexual abuse, they likely will not trust the first (or tenth) person who wants to “help” them or “rescue” them, and they may appear to be more comfortable or content in the role that was assigned to them than you would imagine. If you can recognize a “prostitute” but not a human-trafficking victim, I challenge you to let go of “natural” perceptions and recognize that they often are inaccurate. We cannot identify true colors through tinted glasses. It is very uncommon that a woman, young or old, actually chose to become a prostitute. Most prostitutes were victims of sexual violence. We must challenge ourselves to treat every person and case uniquely, and be willing to learn the entirety of every case/story.
I believe the key to prevention is awareness and involvement. Every person is responsible for his or her own role, whether as a parent, guardian, mentor, or career person. We all have a responsibility to educate ourselves within our field. Parents are responsible for protecting their children, as are teachers, social workers, counselors, youth leaders, medical professionals, and law enforcement officers. Medical professionals can be trained to identify marks and signs of physical and sexual abuse. If teachers are involved in their students’ lives, they can notice changes in behavior, grades, or temperament. Social workers, youth workers, and counselors can learn the right questions to ask children if they see or hear of any cause for concern to make sure that their clients/kids are in a safe, nonabusive environment. Often, children/teenagers who are acting out for attention or exhibiting delinquent behaviors are doing so because of unseen/unknown problems and abuse in the home. It is important to note that most trafficking victims have experienced prior physical/sexual/psychological abuse, and a high number are or were in foster care and are runaways. A key to prevention is working with these children/teens to find a safe environment for them, as well as counseling/coaching before they become victims of human trafficking.
In my situation and in many others, professionals were either unaware or aware and uninvolved. Lack of awareness and lack of involvement are equally detrimental in assisting a child who is being trafficked or at risk of being trafficked. Attend a seminar or conference on human trafficking, look into your state’s policies and laws regarding human trafficking, and encourage policy changes that address the issue. Request a training event for community members or professionals in your sphere of influence.
Maintaining freedom and finding wholeness has not been easy. I have been out of “the life” for years, actively seeking healing through counseling, groups, and programs, and I am still far from the end. Some days I have wanted to give up—after eight years of constant attempts to find wholeness, I am tired. Tired of fighting the flashbacks. Tired of going to counseling. Tired of warding off painful memories, fears, and anger every time I try to be intimate. There are days when I have wondered if it is really possible to ever be free from the person I was forced to be. I am still learning to trust and to live life like a “normal person.” Most days, it takes more effort than I care to admit. Sometimes people have said, “Wow, I would have never been able to guess that you had gone through anything like this. You seem so normal.” In those moments, I feel both relieved and anguished; accepted and alone. If only they had a glimpse of the battle that rages inside me every single day. I long for the day when the person who I appear to be on the outside is wholly and completely who I am on the inside. People who ask, “How did you get out?” don’t get it. “Getting out” is a lifelong process. Recovery is a lifelong process. I used to beat myself up for still struggling. Now I realize that trauma impacts people. As I grow and heal, I don’t have to allow trauma to control or influence me as much, but it never completely goes away. There will always be triggers and painful memories, but I am learning to respond to my triggers and memories differently.
Another hurdle was learning to take care of myself. Because my experiences took place when I was so young, I lacked a lot of life skills that most people learn growing up. I didn’t know how to cook, clean, drive, or balance a checkbook. I had extreme anxiety about talking on the phone or face-to-face with people, and that made it difficult for me to schedule appointments or do a job interview. A huge step toward maintaining my freedom is becoming independent. Simple things, such as learning how to drive, learning a new job, graduating from high school (I had dropped out), and continuing my education, were very empowering for me in my recovery.
Having a mentor who knew my weaknesses and was not afraid to love me through them and call me out on them was also important. Knowing I can always contact her when I am having a moment of irrational thinking or need advice and encouragement has helped tremendously. I have also found that the more I share my story, the less power it has over me.
Allowing my past to have purpose (sharing it to educate or inspire others who have experienced hardship) has helped me transform from a victim to an overcomer. I am not a victim anymore. I was a victim. Now, I choose to let my life have purpose, and I make my own decisions. When I am helping other people, I find that the worthless feeling I used to have dissipates, and I am not as tempted to return to a mediocre life. When I gave birth to my daughter, my world was completely changed. I know I can’t go back to my old life—she needs me, and I want her to grow up with dignity. I will work hard to be an example for her.