For those of us who care about justice in this world… sometimes a little too much… I want to offer you this prayer I read about a year ago.  In a fit of righteous anger I was reminded that truly, justice is not my battle to fight.  It’s my job to help and do whatever I can to serve the least of these, it’s my job to think strategically and strive for sustainability and yada, yada, yada… but it’s my job to love, not to be Saviour.

Archbishop Oscar Romero reflects this freedom with a prayer:

May this blog serve as an education to those who do not yet know or understand the atrocities of trafficking and may it serve as an encouragement to those who understand it all too well.

(Post originally written 3/13/12)

Today was one of those days where I was just plain angry.  The kind of angry where you come home and immediately start looking for a bottle because you’ve got to have just one drink.  I’ve had it.  I’m angry at individuals, angry at organizations, angry at weak men and vicious traffickers, angry at porous borders, weak judicial systems and lacking laws.  I was on maddened roll at times today and those around me knew it.  For a moment or two I just focused my rage on the unpleasant weather conditions because that seemed the least dangerous outlet for us all.  (If I had a punching bag, I’d just use that… I found years ago that hitting walls isn’t too effective.)

I don’t know what it is… I don’t know what was the straw that broke my back today.  Maybe it’s because I’m preparing for a trip dealing with trafficking victim outreach, maybe it’s because I talked about my own story today… maybe it’s because I heard of a friend involved in the sex industry who isn’t in the best of situations.  I was told of yet another country today where trafficking is ramped and there seems to be no one helping.  I want more of our NGOs and more of our governments.  I want more from myself.

Usually I’m pretty realistic about the fact that we’re not going to be able to help every girl.  I probably will not see slavery end totally in my lifetime.  Today though, for some reason it just seems completely unacceptable that even one girl is being harmed by the commercial sex industry– not to mention the million of others.  Yes, I recognize that as I write this it’s only Tuesday, but this week has hit it’s limit for trafficking.  Sorry, no more– no more allowed this week.  I’m done.  I’m not accepting a single more instance of abuse for a single other child.  No.

I know this isn’t me making much realistic sense but I think a little righteous anger is OK.  I never want to become passive about abuse or numb to injustice.  I think it’s good for us to through temper tantrums every now and then as long as the anger moves us to progression and not depression.  So I’m going to say it again- NO MORE!  I refuse to stand by as younger versions of myself remain silent just because there’s not yet a platform for them to speak.  It’s not fair.  Speak here my friends if you can’t speak anywhere else.  I will listen to you.

May this blog serve as an education to those who do not yet know or understand the atrocities of trafficking and may it serve as an encouragement to those who understand it all too well.

Within the first 15 min of a visit to most American restaurants you’re hit will a million choices.  Would you like to sit inside or outside? Table, booth or bar?  Can I start you off with an appetizer? What would you like to drink? Beer? Wine? Water? Juice? Soda?… Soda, ok? Coke, Sprite, Rootbeer, Orange… Coke? OK, Diet or Regular?  And if you’ve got a really detail orientated server,…Ice or no ice? Straw or no straw?  (Don’t even get me started if you choose beer or wine…)  We have entire rows at the grocery store dedicated to soda choices, or chips or I’ve even seen butter.  Today, I noticed literally 4ft of cotton swabs options. (?!!)

To girls coming out of a very restrictice envronment, where they are alllowed no opinion about what they wear each day, the food they eat or pills they take, a Western world like ours that’s inidated with choices is terrifying.  Two of the times that cause me to pause with indecision the most, even now, are when choosing food and choosing what to wear in the morning.  I’m horrible at it.  It’s not a rare occasion when I’ll enter the kitchen and wonder around for 30 minutes before I start in on making a meal.  It’s just next to impossible for me to decide and the whole ordeal actually brings me great stress.  Choosing laundry detergent at the store has a similar affect.

It’s all just too much. I never had choices.  I was never allowed to choose my own clothing until the later portion of high school.  It was mortifying.  Options for dinner were usually fast food or what I could figure out how to make from a microwave or one pot on the stove.  Frozen dinners and soup from a box happened a lot… every now and then mashed potatoes.  If there wasn’t any money for food then the choice would come down to what looked easy enough to forage for or steal.  I’m very self-conscious now when it comes to cooking because of all this.

Choices didn’t used to be part of my daily routine so now it can kind of freak me out.  There have been secret moments alone on the floor of the kitchen where I just sit down near tears in defeat.  All the while I’m hoping that an option will just fall off the shelf and into my lap.  Grounded in confusion on a kitchen floor between refrigerator and pantry is one of my most humiliating moments.  Restaurants with larege menues are just as stressful.  I often stick to one page and refuse to look at the rest for fear that it will complicate matters.  I often will narrow down two choices and then ask the waiter to choose for me.  I hate having a lot of choices… have I said this enough yet?

I am so thankful to have options in my life and not to feel stuck.  However, even if all the choices are good, it’s still stressful to me.  So please be kind world, and simplify… those of us coming out of the life, out of other forms of trauma and out of abusively restrictive environments will thank you.  Besides, do we really need 27 different kinds of butter when there are people in the world still fighting for clean water?! No.

May this blog serve as an education to those who do not yet know or understand the atrocities of trafficking and may it serve as an encouragement to those who understand it all too well.

Sometimes you just want to cry, you just need to cry… but I often can’t, or won’t… I’m honestly not sure which.  Have you ever really had to sneeze but the darn thing just won’t come out?  That’s the way I feel about my tears.  You feel the emotional burn building up, churring and straining to emerge but alas… there’s no release.  No amount of looking at the sun, sniffing, watching a sad movie or thinking more depressing thoughts will break the seal which has thickened over my tear ducts from years of lies.

Growing up in an abusive environment children are often taught that their emotions are either bad and punished or rather completely disregarded.  My situation was no different.  You couldn’t cry in front of a man you were supposed to have sex with. (Because that, not the fact that I was a child, was unattractive.)  And I couldn’t cry at home either.

I remember a specific instance where I was undergoing some horrific torture for some unknown reason.  The details of this event aren’t necessary to discuss here but the backs of my legs were violently stinging and I was crying– a HUGE no, no and luxury I rarely allowed myself to take part in.  It just hurt too bad.  There are a couple of things which stick out in my memory about that event but one element is not about the abuse at all.  Someone had just left the room where this was taking place because he was so upset and couldn’t handle it.  I then heard my mother say, “See look what you did! All of your carrying on has made him so upset he’s had to leave!”  I was forever shamed.

Crying can be a healthy release and should be allowed as children and as adults, as a male or as a female.  Sure, there’s an appropriate time and place for everything, but it shouldn’t be looked upon as a shameful expression.  I still to this day have a hard time.  It’s rare that I don’t feel embarrassed at my own tears falling.  It makes me feel uncomfortable and vulnerable… as if crying boldly denotes great weakness.  The converse though is that in private, I hate that this part of my emotions still isn’t fully integrated.  It’s better, but still not there.  I’ll fix my faucet one of these days.

May this blog serve as an education to those who do not yet know or understand the atrocities of trafficking and may it serve as an encouragement to those who understand it all too well.

Driving along today a thought popped into my head, as they so often do.  Pimps are like vultures.  Vultures devour flesh from discarded animals… the animals that are already beaten down and dead, the animals that no one else stands up to defend, the animals the no one else seems to place value in.

A large, large number of trafficked persons have a previous history of sexual abuse and dysfunctional environments… they are the discarded ones of our communities.  Traffickers have been known to choose individuals from every race, socioeconomic status and background.  The statistics are still true however that minorities thwarted by racial prejudice, girls living in poverty and those in abusive homes are far more likely to be “picked up” by a pimp.  Traffickers search and scour for wounded children, teens and young adults who will be easy targets.  Just like a vulture, circling from above at the scent of death, pimps keep a close distance as they watch for the pivotal moment of weakness… then the feasting begins.

Imagine one of these hideous dark birds landing close by a young girl who is spending her first night on the streets after fleeing the fist of her drunken step-father.  The bird hops closer, as a pimp would initiate contact and build a friendship– maybe even a dating relationship.  However, once the “pimp bird” affirms how wounded the girl’s spirit is, there’s no more need for pleasantries. He dives right in with his sharp beak, tearing the flesh of the girls soul apart with more abuse and manipulation.

If traffickers are savvy enough to tell who the “least of these” are and able to get close enough to take them under their wings, then why can’t we?  People keep asking, what can we do to end trafficking?  Find the wounded and care for them before a vulture does- that’s what we can do!  This is one of the best possible prevention methods.  Let’s be proactive.  If we were to do a better job as the church and as the community holding umbrellas over those who need them most, we could cut a trafficker’s plan off at the knees.

Don’t let the vultures win.

May this blog serve as an education to those who do not yet know or understand the atrocities of trafficking and may it serve as an encouragement to those who understand it all too well.