Girls Like Us Page 26

  One of the female legislators gets up. “I want you to know how brave and courageous you all are for giving your testimonies today. You should be incredibly proud of your strength. I also want to tell you that I was a victim of sexual abuse.” There’s a pause in the room as she says this, and I’m guessing that most of her male colleagues had never heard this information before. I wonder if they’ll look at her differently afterward. I wonder if she cares. She seems oblivious to them and is addressing the girls directly. “And I just want you to know, that while it’s hard, it’s possible to heal and recover and have a good future. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t or that you’re not normal.” She gestures around at other people in the room. “Just so you know, normal just doesn’t exist.”

  The girls are clearly moved by her honesty and by her revelation. The other legislators commend their courage and promise to fight for the bill, too. We leave elated, and they chatter excitedly in the car most of the way home, until one by one they fall asleep, kids on a long car ride.

  A few weeks after our Albany trip, and just three days before the end of the legislative session, I hear news that we may actually pass the bill this year. Then, within a few hours, I get the call that the senate has agreed to pass the bill but with critical changes to the language that make the bill totally ineffective. I’m sobbing on the three-way with Cait and Mishi, crying from frustration, from anger, from disappointment that yet again we’ve failed to pass the bill and that yet again I have to tell the girls that the folks in power have chosen not to listen to their testimonies of abuse and violence. And so the session ends that week, the bill passes unanimously in the assembly, but nothing passes in the senate. Girls in New York State can still be charged with an act of prostitution even though they’re the victims and no amount of compelling stories or empathetic tears have changed that. Six months to wait until the beginning of the next legislative session, six months before we can start fighting all over again.

  A year later, one of our Albany contacts, JR, is on the phone debating with me about the need for another youth-led legislative briefing at the capitol.

  “It’s just not worth it, Rachel. No one’s going to come. Besides, at this point, people are either for or against the bill; it’s not going to change anything.”

  “Well, we do it every year and it’s important to us and it’s important to the girls and I feel pretty strongly that we need to do it, and so do they. They’ve been bugging me about going to Albany for weeks—it’s a huge deal to all of us.”

  “It’s kind of a waste of time, honestly.”

  “A waste of time? To engage girls in the civic process? Really? To empower them to have a voice? To show them that their voices can make a difference?”

  He laughs.

  “OK, but don’t say I didn’t tell you if you only get three people showing up.”

  “It’s fine; we’ll do a great job of impressing those three people.”

  He’s almost right, although instead of three it’s seven. Not exactly a rousing crowd. There’s also no one from the senate, which had been our target audience. Jasmine, Monica, and Kristina do a great job and I give them a good rah-rah speech afterward, but I’m despondent about our chances of getting the bill passed this year. I don’t want the girls to know, though, so I try to keep it lighthearted and figure that instead of driving straight back, we’ll hang out and get lunch at the capitol and try to make a day of it. After all, the girls had gotten up at 5 a.m. to make it up here in time; the least I can do is feed them.

  The weather is beautiful so we grab lunch from one of the many food trucks parked by the Legislative Office Building and sit in the park. Before long I see Shawn, a legislative aide, running across the park, waving a paper in his hand. The girls are excited to see him, mainly because they all have a crush on him. I’m perplexed as to why calm and collected Shawn, whom we’ve worked with for four years, would be breaking a sweat, running across the park in his suit, looking vaguely manic.

  “They’ve reached an agreement! It’s gonna pass!”

  I’m floored. He thrusts the paper into my hand. “It happened; they agreed to the language changes.” I can’t quite believe it.

  “We did it? That’s cos of us?” Jasmine asks. They’re amazed that the wheels of power in Albany move this quickly. We’ve only just finished our lunch.

  I know enough about Albany to know that the briefing just thirty minutes earlier did not cause the legislation to pass that day. There had been a lot of backroom talks and negotiations going on lately, scores of e-mails back and forth arguing over wording and intent. Yet it has been the girls’ collective voices and efforts over four-plus years that brought us to this point—all the trekking up to Albany, the testifying at legislative briefings and city council hearings, talking to the press, sharing their most painful experiences.

  “Yes, you did it!”

  The girls whoop and yell; I’m still half in shock at the timing of it all. After four and a half years of a hard-fought battle, people in power have actually listened to commercially sexually exploited girls and it’s happened on the one day that year that the girls are in the state capital. Apparently it was worth going up to Albany after all. I remind myself to call JR and gloat later.

  The leadership of survivors in the fight against commercial sexual exploitation and domestic trafficking in the United States is unquestionable. In addition to GEMS, survivor-led programs across the country leading the way in services, advocacy, and training for many years include the pioneering Standing Against Global Exploitation (SAGE) in San Francisco, Breaking Free in Minnesota, Dignity House in Arizona, Veronica’s Voice in Kansas, and MISSSEY (Motivating, Inspiring, Supporting, and Serving Sexually Exploited Youth) in Oakland. Clearly, survivors are able to take on leadership roles and excel in them. However, it’s also important not to restrict the role of survivors to the “movement” or even to working in the nonprofit world.

  Girls need to know that being a survivor doesn’t limit them, nor does it ultimately define them. In the beginning, my past is all I really have to go on—I don’t have a college degree, experience managing a nonprofit, or any of the other qualifications that most executive directors possess. My ability to connect with the girls is my saving grace, my past the hook that initially drew people in to want to learn more, the thing that makes me “special.” Over time I begin to learn how important it is for me to be able to move beyond that role. As I gained real experience, not just “connecting with the girls” but managing budgets, supervising staff, and making the many daily decisions required to run an organization, I learned to see myself as a whole individual, my past just one facet of who I am.

  As my understanding of leadership evolves, I try to impart it to the girls. It’s the ability to facilitate a presentation or training without even really mentioning your past, and still trust that you’re going to do a phenomenal job. It’s knowing that you have enough counseling skills to work with a girl in crisis without telling her your own story. It’s discovering your skills at other things; writing a proposal, planning an event, overseeing a project—none of which you need to be a survivor to do—that ultimately shows your growth as a leader.

  Over the years I learned that youth leadership looks different for different people. Not everyone is a ham like me who enjoys public speaking. Some girls are fantastic writers; some have great programming ideas; for others it may be the opportunity to serve as a “big sister” to other girls in the program. Others may want to make an impact through sharing their creative talents; therefore, there must be multiple avenues and opportunities for girls and young women to share their skills and knowledge and to experience concrete ways of “making a difference.”

  As a survivor-leader, I hope to see youth survivor-leaders go on to achieve in politics, the arts, science, and business—in any field of endeavor they choose. Learning to advocate in Albany can translate into the confidence to go into the corporate world; counseling peers can spur a care
er in medicine. Ultimately, as girls begin to find their own voice, power, and strength, they can begin to envision a productive and exciting future. For girls and young women who have experienced such immense trauma and pain, for whom a happy and healthy future seemed an impossibility, the need to be able to envision themselves moving forward, creating a new life, accomplishing and achieving, loving and being loved, being an important part of the world and making an impact on that world, is the true indication of real healing and recovery.

  Chapter 16

  Beginnings

  In her heart she is a mourner for those who have not survived.

  In her soul she is a warrior for those who are now as she was then.

  In her life she is both celebrant and proof of women’s capacity and

  will to survive, to become, to act, to change self and society.

  And each year she is stronger and there are more of her.

  —Andrea Dworkin, “A Battered Wife Survives”

  SUMMER 1998, NEW YORK CITY

  It’s after midnight and yet the air is still hot. It’s one of those sweltering New York summer nights that growing up in England has ill-prepared me for. Despite my disdain for the American obsession with Arctic temperatures indoors in the middle of the summer, tonight I am cursing the fact that I can’t afford an air conditioner in my apartment. I’ve decided to sit outside on my stoop and pretend that there’s really a breeze. I can’t sleep anyway. There’s too much on my mind. It’s been a year since I came to the States to work with women in the sex industry. My job has just ended, the result of my decision to accept a full scholarship to a private college. I thought my boss would see this as good news, but somehow she wasn’t thrilled and gave me an ultimatum, work or school. I’d been under the impression that most people managed to do both simultaneously, but apparently this option is not on the table. It takes me all of about twenty seconds to make my decision. I left school at the age of thirteen and have struggled for years with a sense of inadequacy about my lack of education. I still read voraciously, but I’m aware that there are huge gaps in my learning and that if my life ever depended upon calculating a fraction or a percentage, I’d be in serious trouble. It’s not that I think I’m stupid, but I’ve always wanted a little piece of paper to validate that I’m not. For years I assume that I’d missed my opportunity, until I learn about America’s wonderful general equivalency diploma. A few weeks after I arrive in New York, I register for GED prep classes at a local church. My reading and writing skills are fine but math inspires a special kind of terror in me. It takes seven months of twice-weekly math tutoring with the incredibly patient Mr. Robert before I’m ready to conquer the exam. Late one night, just as I’m getting ready for bed, I see an envelope pushed under my door. Inside are the nervously anticipated results, proof that I’m adequate and not stupid. I cry when I read them. Not only have I passed, but I’ve passed with a really high score. As a missionary making about six thousand dollars a year, I’m permanently broke, but that night I spend my last two dollars to buy a Häagen-Dazs ice-cream bar from the bodega and walk around my neighborhood at midnight, grinning stupidly and having to physically restrain myself from telling every random stranger that it’s official. I’ve graduated from high school at the age of twenty-three.

  My scores open the door to an interview with Marymount Manhattan College through their community leadership program, designed for young people who ordinarily wouldn’t have opportunities to go to college and who are actively engaged in nonprofit work. It’s the perfect fit, and while there are some hurdles about not being eligible for TAP or Pell due to my immigrant status, the director of the program lobbies hard for me and I’m awarded a full four-year scholarship. It would feel like a dream come true, if I had ever dreamed of attending college. After everything I’ve been through and having been in New York only less than a year, it’s hard not to believe that this is a miracle. Now that I’ve got the acceptance letter in my hand, turning down this opportunity isn’t even an option. I’d like to tell my boss to take her ultimatum and shove it, but instead I tell her that I’m going to school and she can make whatever decision she sees fit. She fires me.

  So I’m unemployed and broke, and school starts in just a few weeks. I sit on the concrete steps of my building, wondering what on earth I’m going to do. There are people encouraging me to leave New York; there’s a job offer in another state from a church that works with homeless people. I try to explain that you don’t just trade one set of marginalized people for another. I believe my calling is here in New York, with these girls. People think I’m being foolish. I have no real support, no money, no job, my visa’s about to expire, and I have no idea how I’m going to pay the rent on my new apartment. My college degree is still four whole years away.

  Yet while my job has ended, my passion for this issue, for the girls, has not; I cannot imagine working with anyone else. I think of Melissa, Jennifer, Aisha, and Katherine, girls I’ve grown to know and love. Girls I loved from the moment I met them. I think about my girls in Rikers and my girls on the street. I think about Miranda and her comments about my being sent here and I know that she’s right. Everything in my life has led me to this point. I think about my journey and what I needed to get out of the life: love, compassion, shelter, clothing, food, kindness, a job. I think about the things that I didn’t get but that would’ve been nice: the ability to be honest about my experiences; an understanding that I was victimized; knowledge about the larger issue of commercial sexual exploitation and how all the things I’d experienced made me vulnerable; and most important, a place where I could talk to other girls and women who’d been through the same things, who would never judge me, who could relate to my experiences. I think about my first year here, and despite the immense challenges and huge learning curve, how empowering it feels to help others, to use my voice and not be silent about my experiences, to sometimes be the expert in the room, to see other young people, like Cherry, Julia, and Peter, as leaders and activists, and how working to create change not just in the lives of individual girls but in the larger system feels amazing. And so I decide to stay and create for other girls the kind of place that I had wanted and needed. It will be like FUBU, for us by us, except instead of sneakers it will be about survivors helping survivors, girls and young women supporting each other, girls being leaders, girls speaking out. I’m not sure how I’ll do it but I figure that I’ll work that out as I go.

  As I walk to the bodega to get an Icee, I think about what I might call my organization. I run into my friend Doug, who is horrified that I’m wandering around so late. I’m babbling on and on and Doug, in his patient-friend role, is listening and offering nods of encouragement.

  “What am I going to call it? It has to have a name. Otherwise no one will think it’s official.” We sit on the stoop sucking on our melting Icees for a few minutes, pondering names. “It has to be like a . . . um, um, what do you call those things that have initials but spell out different words, like ASAP or AWOL? You know?” It’s one of the words that I know how to spell thanks to all my reading but am reluctant to say as I don’t know how to pronounce it. I simply pretend to have forgotten the word and wait for someone to say it.

  “Acronym?”

  “Yup, an acronym. All the organizations have those now. It needs to be a good one though, cos I hate those ones that are such a stretch. I want mine to signify something.”

  We toss names around for a while. “ROSES, Rescuing Others from Sexual Exploitation.”

  “Nah. I want it to be strong. Not rescuing.”

  “FLOWERS? Freeing Ladies . . .” Doug offers.

  I laugh. “What are you gonna do with that w?”

  “Ladies Or Women?” We both crack up.

  “Seriously, though, I want something that says that girls are valuable. They’re important. They’re beautiful. I feel like that’s the part that no one sees. Everybody looks at them, at us, like we’re dirty, never gonna be anything. I feel like God sees t
hem, us, as beautiful. All of them.” I’m on a roll now. “I’ve been reading that verse in Isaiah about laying your foundation with stones, like rubies and stuff. You know the one I mean?” Doug has grown up in the church.

  “Yeah, Isaiah fifty something.”

  “Yep. It talks about being afflicted and tossed with tempest, like violence. But then how God will lay your foundation with colorful gems. I like that. That’s how I think about the girls. It’s like their lives have been full of violence but really they’re like precious stones.”

  “How about DIAMONDS or RUBIES or something?”

  “GEMS!”

  We try out these for a few minutes, making words fit, until I finally decide. “I think it’s GEMS, Girls Educational and Mentoring Services.

  “Cos if you think about it, to everyone else, they just look like regular old rocks or stones, but to a master jeweler, who can see the beauty and potential in a stone and knows that with some polishing, some care and attention, just like these girls need, that the precious stone, the gem, will come out and be shining.”

  “That’s pretty good.” Doug’s a fan.

  “GEMS, GEMS, GEMS.” I try on the name for size. I like it, too.

  “The birth of GEMS: on a stoop, eating Icees after midnight, in the Bronx,” I declare, gesturing grandly. We both laugh.

  It’s not until later that night, after Doug has gone home and I’ve returned upstairs to endure the night in my little oven, that I read the chapter in Isaiah again. The preceding verse, “ ‘For the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed, but My kindness shall not depart from you, nor shall My covenant of peace be removed,’ says the LORD, who has mercy on you,” is the verse that a stranger, in a nearby bed, gave to my mother for me in a little hospital in Dorset the night I was born. It’s a sign. GEMS it is.