Andrea, the whore.

andrea

Image: http://dianascimone.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341d6a8353ef0120a8d4caa7970b-320wi
WARNING: This is an extremely graphic post about the rape of a 12-year old girl and how she was forced into prostitution at an early age. I do not recommend anyone reading it who could be triggered and/or has a weak stomach. These stories are not for everyone.

Please see https://idisagreecompletely.com/2013/09/01/i-dont-see-your-tears-i-hear-them/ before reading this one. These stories will eventually be made into their own page.

Her story. My words.

I knew something was wrong as soon as he came in the door. It was the way he looked at me. It sent a chill up my spine. I looked away quickly and went back to reading my book. I could tell he was still looking at me. I shrank into the chair as much as I could. I heard my father whispering to him. They stepped outside the camper and talked. My little brother was playing with his toy truck on the floor next to me. He ran it over my foot. I jumped up and slapped him on the head with my book. He cried out, stood up and moved away from me.

I was used to people coming to our camper at all hours of the day and night. I didn’t know why at the time. I was told to not ask questions so I never did. We lived in a small camper with my father, mother, my younger brother and sister. Sometimes we would leave in the middle of the night. Sometimes we stayed somewhere for a few weeks.

My father came back in and looked at me. He looked at me and then at the man. The man was smiling at me again and nodding his head. My mother came in from outside and stood behind my father. She was wringing her hands and crying. I was too scared to get up and go to her. I watched them. Finally the man came over to me and held out his hand. I shrank back.

“Andrea! Go with this man!” my father yelled at me. I shook my head. I got up and stepped away. The man smiled more.

“Come with me, little one. Do as your father said. I’m going to take you to get ice cream. You’ll like it,” he said and stepped closer to me. I backed away again. I couldn’t go any further. My back was pressed against the wall.

“Jose, NO!” my mother screamed and rushed towards me. My father pulled her back and told her to be quiet. She stopped but continued to cry. The man turned around and looked at her.

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt her. I’ll have her back by tomorrow morning,” he said. He turned back, walked over to me and took me by the arm. He led me out of the camper and into his car. I began crying and pulling away from him. He picked me up and put me in the back seat of his station wagon and locked the doors.  He drove off.

“Where are we going?” I asked. I choked on my words. I was so scared. I could still my mother crying and my father yelling at her to be quiet. I had never seen this man before. I learned to look the other way or walk away when men showed up at our campsite. Last year when someone showed up, my mother would rush over to me and lead me away. She often put her shawl over my shoulders and covered me up. Lately some of the men had asked her not to take me away. They wanted me to sit with them. My mother would glare at them and push me away from them.

Now I was in some man’s car, driving through the night to get ice cream. I knew there wasn’t any ice cream at the end of the drive. I didn’t know what he wanted or where we would end up, but I didn’t like it. I wanted to go home and crawl into my sleeping bag and read.

“Don’t worry, little one. You are safe with me. I will take good care of you. You have nothing to fear,” he said. He looked back at me and smiled. I cringed and sat back. I couldn’t get far enough away from him.

He pulled into a driveway and turned off the engine. He came around to the back seat, unlocked the door and opened it for me. I slid away from him to the other side and shook my head.

“Get out of the car. Do as you’re told!” he said.

I shook my head again and reached for the door handle.  Before I knew what was happening, he lunged for me, grabbed my foot and dragged me across the seat. He picked me up and slung me over his shoulder, slammed the car door and walked into the house. He carried me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table. I sat very still. I was too scared to move. He got ice cream out of the freezer and scooped some into a bowl. He put it in front of me with a spoon, sat down across from me and told me to eat it.

I didn’t want it. I was shaking and starting to sob again. My stomach was in knots. I was afraid I would throw it up if I tried to eat it. I pushed it away. He pushed it back.

“Eat it. I told you I was going to give you ice cream and I am a man of my word.” His eyes were harsh and cold. I was terrified of what would happen if I didn’t eat it, so I took a spoonful and put it in my mouth. It was chocolate. I haven’t been able to eat chocolate ice cream since then.

He smiled. When I was done, he put the bowl in the sink and told me to get up. I did. He took my hand and led me down the hall to his bedroom. I pulled away and he picked me up again and threw me down on the bed.

He smiled again as he reached over and yanked my pants off. I started kicking and screaming. This made him chuckle. He pulled off my underwear and told me how beautiful I was. I began screaming louder. He told me if I didn’t shut-up he would beat me and then go kill my family. He yanked my shirt off and ran his hands all over me. I stopped screaming. He put his hand over my mouth and pushed my head down into the bed. He climbed on top of me and pushed my legs apart. He thrust himself in me and I screamed as loud as I could.

I thought I would die from the pain. He thrust himself into me over and over and with each thrust, I screamed louder. I couldn’t help it. I tried not to. I didn’t want my family to die. I thought I would be torn into two. I fought and clawed and screamed. He slapped me across the face and told me I liked it.

When he was done, he rolled over and sighed.  I curled up into a ball, pulled a pillow over my face and tried to die. I tried to be nothing and to be nowhere. I haven’t wanted to be alive since then. I was bleeding and scared. He kept telling me I wanted this, that this was what I was good for and that it was natural.

I was locked in the bedroom with him. I heard other people walking around the house and talking during the night. I got up several times at night and tried to leave. I couldn’t open the door. I banged on it and woke him up.

He raped me again.

No one came to help me. There was blood all over the sheets. It wasn’t from my period.

In the morning, he made me take a shower with him. He washed me everywhere. He cooed and told me how beautiful I was. He held me up when I couldn’t stand. He washed my hair and dried me. He dressed me back in my clothes. He cooked me breakfast and made me eat it.

I could not move. It was hard to bring the fork up to my mouth and chew. I was dead but my brain didn’t know it yet.

He took me home. When he pulled up and let me out of the car, my mom came running to me.

She picked me up and carried me into the house. She was crying. I started crying and couldn’t stop. She rocked me for a long time. She wanted me to shower and I started screaming again. I still can’t take showers and only do so if I have to.

I didn’t see my father that day or the next. When he finally came home, he didn’t look at me. He didn’t for a long time and then only for a few seconds.

That was the first time I felt shame and it never stopped. Ever since then, no words can get rid of it.

I didn’t realize that tears were running down my face as she spoke. Her story was not as concise as I have written it but while she spoke, each word was branded into my mind. I have never been able to get rid of them.

This was the beginning of her life as a prostitute. She was sold to men when her father could not pay a debt to drug dealers. She was taught at an early age that this was all she was good for.

The actions of the adult always teach the child.

Her life began that day as a whore, a slut, a hooker, a prostitute. How could it not? This was not a decision she consciously made herself. This was not the life she wanted or had chosen. In all the years I worked with women such as her, never was there a moment of clarity where the decision was made. No one wakes-up one day and says to herself “My life goal is to fuck as many men as possible for as much money as I can get.”

And yet, here they are. On the streets, in motels, in bars and casinos and hundreds of other places where men are and where a few bucks can be made.

The men say they like it, they want it, and that no one gets hurt. It’s called a “victimless crime” but how can that be when a child is forced into it and knows nothing else? Do we really think that this is a life someone has chosen? Do we think we are better than them because we had a better start in life?

I do not sympathize but I care. I can’t say what I would have done if it had been me. I can never answer that question because unless you’ve been that person, you can never know.

“I did what I was told. My tears and my mother’s pleading fell on deaf ears. I didn’t understand any of it. I was bleeding but not taken to the doctor. I was kept locked in the trailer in case I ran away. I wanted to run, so bad, but there was no place to go except the desert. He came back two more times before we packed up and started traveling again.

My little brother was kind to me. I was listless and wanted to sleep and never wake-up. I couldn’t cry anymore. The bleeding started again about a week after we left. I was half-dead before my father pulled into a hospital and dropped me off. Actually dropped me off and drove away. I guess he knew somebody would do something.

No one came to visit me while I was there. I pretended to not be able to speak English. They were kind, for the most part, and gave me medicine and looked up inside me. I screamed when the doctor tried to do that. The nurse tried to calm me and held my hand. She assured me it wouldn’t take long. The doctor was irritated with me, so I knew to be quiet and submit. What he did hurt and then it was over. I passed out or they gave me something to sleep. It’s all foggy. As soon as I could walk, I ran out and looked for my family. They were down the road, waiting for me. It was another day but I don’t remember how long I was there. We drove off. No one said a word.

Whenever my father couldn’t pay a debt, someone would come for me. The same scenario was repeated; my mother crying and my father yelling. I would be taken somewhere, usually his house but not always, and raped.

I had 4 miscarriages by the time I was 16. I’ll never have children and I never wanted them. I ran away when I was 16 and haven’t looked back. I never went to school and I don’t know anything except how to fuck men. That’s all I’m good for. I’ve tried to learn other things, to go to school, to work in a store, but I don’t know how to do any of those things.

I go from man to man so that I have something to eat, clothes, and a place to sleep. Even being in jail is better than being out on the street. At least for a while I am safer.

Andrea had requested to be enrolled in my classes because she hoped to learn something, anything, that would help her. There were several programs running at the facility, all geared to helping the women get on their feet and get out of the system.

Andrea was 26 and I thought she was in her 40’s. She went to every class she could, worked hard to earn credits with the staff and had started a garden.

She was doing all that she could and then the funding was cut.

Just like that. The “Powers that Be” signed a document and everything came to a stop. I was thanked for my services and all the women were sent back to jail to sit and wait for their sentences to be completed.

What was cut? Amongst other things CalWorks, the state’s welfare-to-work program.

We can argue that “these people” don’t deserve our help and I wouldn’t disagree in theory, but how many people have sat down and just listened? Yes, these aren’t the easiest people to talk to and no one wants to spend their time with them. That’s the main reason I’ve often done this myself. I never took it personally. I understood.

But I am passionate about prostitution because I am tired of women being used and hurt for someone else’s pleasure. I am tired of a species being deemed unworthy to have basic human rights extended to them. I am tired of women being treated as property and sub-human.

So I sat and listened and silently cried and hoped to God that in some cosmic way, a difference was made. I’ve no patience to those that refuse to understand, that tell me prostitutes chose the life they have and that it’s harmless.

How can destroying a person’s pride, integrity, and value be harmless?

Only those that do it would argue.

Andrea was sent back to jail. I never got to say good-bye or see her again. All of them were gone by the time I found out. The budget in Sacramento had been passed and employee’s were reassigned and inmates shipped.

Business as usual.

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