Human Trafficking and Stay-at-Home Moms

We were already 10 minutes late.

As we approached the double glass doors and viewed the domineering mahogany table around which20  professional women were seated wearing chic jackets and polished nails, we thought we were in the wrong place.  They ushered us in, though, and offered two prime seats at the oblong table, as if we belonged there, at this gathering of activists.

I was confused.

The word "coffee" was on the flyer, and it was hosted at a "Mary Lee's House," an obvious name for a coffee house, not a conference room. A fellow stay-at-home mom and I thought we'd signed up for a casual get together where we'd learn about the issues in our community, and I was really looking forward to that cup of coffee.  We quickly learned how far off our expectations were.

Introductions were being had.

"Kelly Murphy, FBI. Agent Greg sends his regards. Sorry, he couldn't make it."

"Michele Wykes, Crisis Center of Tampa Bay."

"Michelle Walker, Miracles Outreach."

"Giselle Rodriguez, Florida Coalition Against Human Trafficking."

"And you are?"

I looked behind me.

"Yes, you. What's your name?"

I was still trying to figure out whether I should apologize, excuse myself, or just hide under the cheap vinyl table cloth in the back.

"Um, I'm April McCullohs, on staff at Church at the Bay, in northwest Tampa, and my husband is a pastor there, and this is my friend Claudia, and she goes there, too, and her husband and I just went to Haiti because we've got this orphanage there and I work with the women's ministry and would love to learn how maybe our women, and we've just got some really good people over there, maybe they could help with something like this, so thank you for having us and I'll just keep my mouth shut and ...

we're really just here to learn."

There.

Should have stuck with those last six words. Only those last six words.

That was the end of introductions, because did I mention we were late?

I spotted my friend across the table, a beautiful South African woman, fierce heart and explosive vision. We exchanged smiles. I began to relax a little.

But not too much.

The power point started and Giselle stood at the head of the table and began to walk us through the inner workings of sex trafficking. If you're like me, you probably don't know much about sex trafficking. I read about it once on Anne Jackson's blog. She had to fly all the way to the Ukraine, or some freezing place like that, to snap the pictures she did, to gather the stories she collected. I used to think of sexy massage parlors in Thailand, or pimps who recruit poor girls in Mexico, promise them decent jobs in the States and then hold deportation, or worse, over their heads, if they attempt escaping.

All of those visuals are pretty accurate scenarios--pimps in the Ukraine and sexy Thai massage parlors do exist, but what I didn't have was a working understanding of what happens here, in my city.

First thing I realized was that I needed a new definition of sex trafficking--the "trafficking" part didn't have anything to do with kidnapping and relocating. Sex trafficking is simply "sex for sale." For adults, there has to be proof of fraud, coercion or force for it to qualify as sex trafficking. For minors, no proof is needed.

The state rightly assumes that no girl really wants to sell her body for sex.

The state rightly assumes that she is a victim.

Then Giselle walked us through the psychology and strategy of the pimp--the recruitment process of his girls, the bonding, the grooming, the breaking her down and the establishment of power and control. There are no haphazard moves with a pimp--he's calculated, manipulative, strategic in his art of controlling people. For people who wonder why she doesn't just run away, the pimp's psychological bondage is the answer, a lethal concoction of incentives and promises of love, along with ever looming threats of physical or sexual violence, and the removal of provision and security.

Here's an excerpt (caution, language) from Pimpin Ken's book, Pimpology:

"I was born a pimp. My daddy was a hustler and I learned about pimpin' from him--both the good and the bad...He was my first role model. His actions showed me how to manipulate people. My daddy didn't have any respect for a h* and no h* could tell my daddy what to do. He treated h***  like s***, but they kept still coming around him anyway. He used to whip their a****, beat them, send them to the hospital, but still they never left. This taught me that there was a power men could have over others, making them do anything and take anything thrown at them."

And the girls, the "h***," these pimps profit from? They come from all backgrounds, some white, middle class, looking for a daddy to replace theirs long gone, some urban, running away from abusive families, looking to escape one form of hell only to trade it for another. There's a courtship, a dance the pimp initiates--he spots her weaknesses, her apparent needs, and he provides what she's lacking, be it housing, food, a father figure, or a sense of belonging. He gives her more and more, elevating himself to the place of savior in her world, only to break her down, cut her ties with her former circles, and enslave her, emotionally, spiritually, sexually, to him and his demands.

Brilliant, masterful...pure evil.

Why we glamorize the icon of the pimp, I don't know. There is nothing metaphorical or abstract about his power--it's made off of real bodies, real souls of young girls; meanwhile, we borrow his language, we throw around his street words, and then we feel cool about ourselves.

We were shown picture after picture of girls' progressions as they worked the tracks, pictures taken year after year as girls surfaced in the system, only to disappear again. They started out pretty, with soft and youthful features. They looked like typical fourteen year old's. By the last of their photos, at the ripe age of nineteen or twenty, the transformation was shocking. Bruised cheeks, deep wrinkles, no eye contact. Some looked strung out, all looked worn out, and any measure of youth or health was effectively erased.

The presentation ended with the video I've attached below. The task force proceeded to give updates on their respective organizations' current needs and statuses.

Kelly from the FBI shared how stretched she felt, as one woman covering over eighteen jurisdictions. Michelle from Miracles Outreach shared a few stories of girls running less, of sticking with the program more, of breakthroughs. Michele Wykes spoke of the new funding the Crisis Center of Tampa Bay had recently received, enabling them to continue offering free post-rape exams to the community, counseling to victims of abuse, and more. Natasha spoke of the steps they're taking towards opening a home in Tampa exclusively tailored for girls rescued from forced prostitution. And Connie shared how she had been pimped out by her father over forty years ago, right here in our county, and how she speaks out against the issue, raising awareness and offering hope.

All the while, I was wondering what I could possibly do.

My current life stage, my choice to lay career aside for this season of raising little ones, prevents me from jumping in wholeheartedly. And I don't see any vacant space between my responsibilities and my passions where I could tack on another commitment.

But I believe in what these women are doing. I believe in my friend, Natasha, and her vision to be the beginning of the end.

So, I'll keep coming around, representing the women who have more diapers in their purses than business cards, more nursing bras than tailored suit jackets. I'll quietly pull up a chair, keep my introductions brief and my mouth shut, and I'll learn.

I'm just here to learn.