Silent No More

Don’t hold me in contempt. Don’t hold me in esteem, either. Actually, just don’t think about me at all. Too many times I’ve been judged by people within white-washed walls with their white-washed souls. Stereotypes never bothered me, until I found myself in the boxes other people made for me. 

Now, falling through the cracks sounds freeing. Where once those cracks swallowed me into voids so large I never thought I could claw my way out, now they hide me when I crawl back into them by choice. 

Nobody warns you that this is a man’s world when you are just a suckling babe. I learned it very quick, though. All of us do, don’t we? What side you fall on makes all the difference. For me, I fell on the wrong side, by some cosmic joke, probably. I’m sure God and his angels had a laugh at my expense.

I glance around. What’s that sound? The bench where I sit is in the open, where anyone can approach. I clutch my bag to my chest, waiting. Oh, it’s just a dog sniffing in the bushes to my right. His lolling tongue and bright eyes calm my anxiety. I’ve never – and by never, I actually mean never – have been used as a mule before. But they promised it was only a small job. If I succeeded, there would be more jobs, more money, more ways to pay my debt. Why I’m even considered to have a debt is beyond me. Being trafficked isn’t something I signed up for. Certainly not being trafficked by my own father and brother. Even Mom knew about it. But it’s a man’s world, remember?

Someone sits by me on the bench. She’s got a kind face, with white hair and a wide smile. Her makeup and outfit are flawless. There’s a sheen of sweat on her face, but it doesn’t diminish her cheery disposition as she grins at me. “Hot day, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer, wondering why she’s even here. But then a young girl runs up, says, “I’ll be back soon, I promise!” and dashes away again. 

The woman waves at the girl, then looks back to me. Her smile doesn’t dissipate. Something lodges in my throat at her look. It’s compassion, not judgment. I know I look like a junkie. I’m ninety pounds, and I could barely afford the shirt I’m wearing. 

“Honey, do you need help?” She reaches a hand out and grips my arm. “A meal, maybe?”

I freeze. There is something about her, something compelling. Suddenly, the lump in my throat moves to my chest. She must have noticed the change come over me, because she stands, throws her purse over her shoulder, and says, “Come on, there’s a sandwich shop over there. And maybe, if you want, you can tell me your story.”

I stand. I follow her. The contraband in my bag isn’t forgotten, I just suddenly find myself with something else, something greater, compelling me. 

Hope. 

***

This story is based off a true story. Latisha’s House is near and dear to my heart. They provide safe houses for sex-trafficking survivors, and programs to acclimate these dear women back into new lives in freedom. You can learn more and donate here.