Sunday, March 17, 2013

The Prostitute on the Street

   A few weekends ago, a friend and I were driving up High Street to the campus of The Ohio State University. She was home from school for spring break and we were {unexpectedly} trying to find a restaurant to have lunch at together.

   It was a perfectly normal moment in a usual day in our lives. As I attempted to not hit any of the pedestrians crossing the street, keep the radio at an acceptable volume, and catch up with my best friend, I was marveling at the sheer goodness of this particular day. I was happy, she was telling me a story, and the day was good. 

   And then, suddenly, everything stopped; the world around me turned into a slow-motion portion of a movie, and I felt my heartbeat pound in my head. I think I mumbled something, but I can't really remember all that clearly.

   "What?" she asked as she looked at me. 

   "We just passed a prostitute." 

   "I didn't see anything," she said as she turned to look back up the street. 

   But I did see. I can still see her, her image forever seared into my mind. I see her dark skin and long black hair flowing in a ponytail behind her. I see her black leather mini skirt. I see her red tanktop. I see her black high-heeled boots. I see her hand awkwardly in a man's. I see her leading him {seemingly confidently, but actually hating herself for doing this yet again} to a cab. 

   That's all I saw. In those three seconds my eyes gazed upon her, I only saw those few things: her skin, her hair, her clothes, and the man she was to service next... 

   But in my heart, I saw so much more. I see her hurt and pain. I see the scars; on her body from her own self-hatred and on her heart from others who have hated her. I see the tears falling that no one else recognizes and I hear the screams in the night that no one else hears. 

   I see so much...and also so little. 

   I don't know her name or her age or her level of education. I don't know her background or her parents or her children. I don't know her at all...and yet I feel connected to her in an uncanny way. 

   "Wanna go talk to some prostitutes with me?" I asked my friend in the passenger seat. I giggled to make it seem like somewhat of a joke; who would want to go talk to her prostitutes at the Arnold Classic? And I was joking...kind of. I did want to go talk to anyone and everyone who would listen about sex trafficking and prostitution, and everything that those topics entail. But I was also uncertain and a bit frightened, so I didn't. 

   I don't know this woman's story. I don't know if she had a pimp somewhere within the Arnold, advertising his girls' services and forcing her to go with the man. I don't know if she "chose" "The Life" {what survivors often call their time in the commercial sex industry}. In fact, I don't even know if she was a prostitute. Maybe she wasn't. 

   But what if she was? And what if I was the only person who noticed the red flags {of a life of pain}?

   And I did nothing?

   "But I guess I just don't know the signs." My friend's words hung in my mind {and still are}. 

   Do YOU know the signs?

No comments:

Post a Comment