by Abby Sher
Now they were the real danger.
Her father pushed her back into the car. It was almost dawn already. Then he drove her home through the streets of San Jose where other moms and dads were turning on the coffeepot, pouring cereal, or opening the curtains and whispering good morning to their slumbering children.
When Minh’s father brought her inside, he told her to get in the shower and get ready for school. No one mentioned the deal. Her parents did not even try to explain or apologize. This was her unspoken obligation. Her duty as their daughter.
This was Minh’s routine through middle school and high school. She constantly struggled to stay awake in class after countless sleepless nights. Then she went to soccer practice and tried to do some homework before getting shuttled to the brothel for another eight hours of being raped and beaten. Her life circled around her in a horrible loop, strangling her. Most mornings she saw the dawn as she went home. Sometimes her parents didn’t even pick her up, but they demanded that Minh get home before sunrise. Then Minh scrubbed her body as if she could wash away the night, got dressed, and started all over again.
The only thing that changed for Minh was that there was a little less screaming in her house now. Her parents were too busy driving Minh back and forth to the brothel and managing all the clients. They placed advertisements in Vietnamese newspapers and magazines that stated they had a young girl whose body they were willing to sell. If Minh made a lot of money in one night, her dad took a break from yelling at her. She sometimes even got a smirk from her mom that Minh tried to interpret as a smile.
Minh wished she didn’t think of smirks and silence as love.
“I was still a kid who really wanted to hope that her parents could change and that they were good people. So I didn’t really want to tell on them. I just couldn’t within myself, get over that.”
~ Minh Dang
Questions with No Answers
Minh was having trouble keeping it together at school. She still got A’s in all her classes and ran faster than anyone else on the soccer field, but inside she felt like she was unraveling. The sleepless nights and secrets churned in her gut. She was exhausted from hiding all the bruises and scratches and from putting on a calm face when all she could think about was the men who grabbed and groped her each night. More and more, she had to stake out corners in the locker room where she could sob. Sometimes she lost it in the middle of a class and had to pull her hair over her face or run out to the bathroom.
Still, she never breathed a word of what was going on. Even when her teachers asked her why she looked tired and depressed, she buttoned her lips and protected her family. “You know, a lot going on,” she might say. Or, “Really busy I guess.” Most of the time, whoever was questioning left it at that.
There was a middle school choir teacher, though, who saw Minh’s tears and asked her to stay after the bell.
“What’s going on?” the choir teacher asked softly.
Minh shrugged and shook her head.
“You can tell me,” the teacher said.
Minh whispered her usual response, “Nothing much. Just tired,” but the choir teacher wasn’t buying it. She just sat there and waited for Minh to say something, anything. Finally, Minh muttered, “My parents are sorta having marital issues.” This was actually true. Minh’s mom had started threatening to divorce her dad on a regular basis. But Minh never believed she’d do it.
“This is more than divorce issues,” Minh’s teacher said. That’s when the floodgates really opened. Minh bawled and howled. Her whole body ached with the desire to trust this woman and tell her everything. Minh wanted so desperately to be carried away from this room, this life, this reality. Maybe she could leave the country with her teacher, and they could change their faces and fingerprints and truly start over.
But Minh was too smart to believe even her own fantasy. She knew if she showed this woman her bruises, the most she could do was call Child Protective Services. Then CPS might call, or worse, come to Minh’s house. The CPS officers would see the quartz rocks and the rosebushes and the welcome mat at Minh’s front door. Both of Minh’s parents had steady, respectable jobs, and they were charming and polite with strangers. Minh could imagine the officers sitting at her dining room table, sipping her mom’s tea, and laughing as they said So sorry for the misunderstanding.
And then when they left, the beatings would be monstrous, her father’s hands hammering down on her skin. Her mother slapping wildly until Minh begged for mercy.
“Tell me, Minh. What is going on?” her teacher pleaded, interrupting Minh’s thoughts.
Minh looked at the choir teacher, sitting in front of her, so put together and unaware. She meant well, but she knew nothing. And there was no way for Minh to explain, really. Because even deeper than the ache of Minh’s bruised skin was the hurt in her heart. She was, and always would be, a child who believed that the monsters she lived with were her parents and that they had to be good people. Maybe confusing and scary, but she thought if she could just please and obey them, they would come around and love her instead of abuse her.
She believed this every time her dad raped her or when her mom dropped her off at the brothel. She believed it every time she came home and watched them count up her money with a smile. She believed it as she shook her head and repeated, “Nothing much. Just tired, I swear.”
It was the only way she could survive.
“I think that my parents showed approval like Oh you made me feel good because you made me money. Or Oh that brings me status. But the approval that I wanted was just sort of I love you because of who you are, which they never showed.”
~ Minh Dang
Justice Is …
When Minh graduated from high school, her parents agreed to let her go to the University of California, Berkeley as long as she continued to work for them. San Jose was just a short car trip away, so they arranged “tricks” for her and continued to get her back to campus on time when her night routine was over. Again, Minh aced her classes and impressed all her teachers. Nobody in the dorms knew where she went at night or on weekends, and it seemed like she could go on like this indefinitely without anyone noticing.
But being away from home was confusing. Minh saw all of her new college friends going out to parties or pulling all-nighters just to talk about the boy they’d met the night before. She actually went out and played for the first time. She took day trips to San Francisco and ran around Pier 39. She ate sourdough bread and listened to music she’d never heard. Even the freedom to go to the campus library seemed magical to Minh.
When her parents ferried her back and forth to the brothel at night, she stared out the car window, trying to figure out why only her life had to be locked up in this other world of pain. She thought for the first time that maybe there was a way out.
There was also a part of Minh that was getting louder. During her freshman year she started going to social action meetings on campus. She found out that Asian American immigrants were being deported without really being given a chance to defend themselves. She went to her first public protest and was blown away. She couldn’t believe that a group of total strangers from the community had rallied to support an immigrant boy who was going to be deported for no reason. Everyone marched and chanted to show their love and support for someone they didn’t even know.
It was so empowering and moving. So far from what she’d grown up seeing.
Huh? People care about strangers? My whole family doesn’t care about each other! Minh thought.
She signed up for more meetings and marched in more rallies. The energy of everyone shouting and cheering was addictive. She even organized a demonstration to protest the admissions policies at UC Berkeley and saw how her voice could lead to concrete change. Part of her wondered if maybe, somehow, some way, people could ever hear her story and march for her life to change, too.
One of the organizations Minh joined was called REACH!. It was all about community building and or
ganizing for social justice. Minh loved the other people in this group. Everyone was so passionate about speaking out for their beliefs.
But one day at a meeting, the students were told to hold off on starting any new projects. The faculty was getting concerned that a lot of people from REACH! were skipping class and getting bad grades because they were spending too much time at rallies. Of course for Minh, this wasn’t an issue. She was used to going to school, doing afternoon activities, poring over her books, and then going to the brothel most nights. She’d figured out how to exist on little to no sleep.
Still, that meeting stuck with her. She felt like a hypocrite. Here she was supporting everyone else while her parents were still selling her at night. She wasn’t sleeping or practicing what she preached at all.
If she really was going to speak out for freedom, didn’t it have to start with her?
Minh left that meeting, went back to her room, and opened her books. She was looking for some sign, some answer. She found a quote from the activist and philosopher Dr. Cornel West: “Justice is what love looks like in public.”
She closed her eyes and imagined Dr. West saying it directly to her. She imagined herself finding some kind of justice, feeling worthy of love.
FICTION:
True slaves are chained by shackles.
FACT:
A slave is anyone who is treated like someone else’s property and/or forced to do work. You don’t need chains to be bound. In fact, psychological chains are often harder to break.
Who’s the Adult Here?
Minh was motivated and miserable at the same time. She was living two crazy different lives: one where she learned about new philosophies and the power of individual activism, the other where she was being paid or beaten to fulfill someone else’s sexual fantasy. She was exhausted from hiding her life at school from her parents and her nights in the brothel from her friends. She continued to meet incredible teachers who inspired her and continued to organize committees for social action with other students. She also started writing poetry, weaving in the images that plagued her. But she didn’t know what to do with all of her notebooks and all of the things she wanted to scream to the world.
Minh knew she couldn’t live this way anymore. One day during her junior year, she admitted to a therapist on campus that she felt suicidal.
The therapist seemed trustworthy and calm, at least in the beginning. She convinced Minh to withdraw from some of her extracurricular activities and just focus on classes and therapy. Minh still never told her about where she went at night or exactly why it was “complicated” between her and her parents. When she continued to show up at appointments weeping and depressed, the therapist suggested that Minh should go on medication. Minh felt hot with anger when she heard this. She wasn’t the one who needed to be medicated. Her sick parents were the ones who needed help. Why couldn’t anybody see that Minh was the sane one? She walked out of the therapist’s office and swore never to go back again.
Minh felt dizzy and scared, like she was edging her way toward a huge cliff. She could see more open space ahead of her. But it was still such a steep drop, such a huge leap of faith that she could have any life outside of what she’d always known. She’d never had a childhood where anyone had protected her, and she longed for a mother or father or any trustworthy adult to tell her she could make it on her own.
So, Minh kept inching forward. She started lying to her parents. It was never a conscious decision. She told them she would arrange her own tricks and send them the money. The first time she lied, Minh really thought she might be struck by a bolt of lightning. She had been not only an obedient daughter, but also a slave to her parents for so many years. Her mom had convinced her that she could always tell if Minh was even thinking about lying.
Minh didn’t know how she could possibly get away with it. She dialed her parents’ number and sucked in a huge breath.
“The traveling to and from San Jose is really affecting my studies,” she explained carefully. She knew her parents were complex people. They wanted to own her, but they also really valued education and wanted her to graduate from college. “I’ll get some dates out here and send you the money,” Minh said, her voice steady and low. “I promise,” she added for good measure.
There was a long pause while Minh clenched her fists and waited for her mom to scream. Instead, she heard a sigh, and then a slow, “Oh … kay.”
Minh couldn’t believe it worked. It was so simple and revolutionary at the same time. She was convincing her parents and herself at that very moment that she couldn’t go on living this way—that she deserved to be free. She rarely arranged any dates or tricks, of course. She saw her parents less and less. When her mom called to ask about the money, Minh just said, “I need it for books.”
She imagined herself ripping off shackles, unleashing herself. Minh felt delirious and terrified all at once. And she had no idea what would happen next.
“Freedom is a state of existence and a process.
Freedom is physical, emotional, and spiritual…
Freedom is quiet.
Freedom is loud.
Freedom is grief—grief that is so deep that it brings relief, joy, and a sense of the world expanding.”
~ Minh Dang
A Matter of Life and Death
One day Minh got a call from her parents. They told her that her dad was diagnosed with liver cancer. The doctors did not give him long to live. Minh listened to her dad talking quietly into the phone. He sounded so helpless and small.
This was the same man who had beaten and sexually abused her regularly for the past seventeen years. The same man who forced her to give up her body to total strangers and allowed her to be used and abused by anyone with cash to spare. This was the same man who helped create her and who also destroyed her.
Minh listened to his shaky voice and she knew two things: He was about to die, and she couldn’t wait.
She didn’t want him to die before she was able to stand up to him. She knew she had to confront him and tell him how much she hated him and how much he had wronged her. She just had no idea how.
As Minh’s dad got weaker, her mom got more confused and erratic. She called Minh constantly, insisting she was going to divorce Minh’s dad and Minh would have to take care of him from now on. At one point, her mom did leave their home in San Jose, but she gave Minh’s dad the address of where she was going, and he went and brought her back.
Minh could barely breathe. Everything in her screamed to drop out of school and run away. She tried to tell her mom and dad that what they did to her was cruel and unacceptable. They told her she was making it all up and they had never mistreated her. It was as if they were crawling into her brain and trying to reconfigure her memories. Minh wasn’t going back to San Jose anymore and she wasn’t arranging tricks, but she felt like she was still under their control. The more she thought about it, the more it became clear to Minh that her parents were never going to change. Her mother had been throwing Minh into a cage with her poisonous, ravenous father for her whole life. If and when he died, Minh knew she would still be under her mother’s reign unless she did something definitive and final.
Minh started the process of changing everything—her phone number, her e-mail, her street address. She opened her own bank account and bought running sneakers so she could sprint through the hills of Berkeley until she felt breathless. Even though she knew this was the only way to climb out, it was incredibly painful for Minh. She felt like she was pulling out the stitches that held her together. Her parents had made her who she was, and she had no idea who she would be once she was emancipated.
Then, on April 14, 2006, Minh sat down at her desk and wrote each of her parents a long e-mail.
She told them that what they had done to her was brutal and inhumane. Instead of parents, they were her torturers. She was done waiting for them to evolve into decent, loving human beings. She was now independent. She told them she was graduating from
Berkeley and would never give them a forwarding address. If they tried to track her down ever again, she would contact the police.
She pressed send and felt her whole being quake. Her body, her mind, her heart, and her soul were completely hers for the first time. She felt like a newborn baby—naked, vulnerable, and seeing the world for the first time.
The next day, Minh opened her journal and wrote another note. This time to herself.
April 15, 2006 … FREEDOM DAY.
“I would say I didn’t really have a favorite color until I was free.”
~ Minh Dang
Rock Party
There were no Fourth of July-style firecrackers or parades when Minh declared her independence. It was actually one of the scariest moments of her life. After all, she’d been enslaved for most of her life. Minh now knew who she wasn’t—a slave, a sex worker, a victim. But she still had to figure out who she was.
She started at the beginning. She’d never had a chance just to be a kid. She’d missed out on making mud pies and throwing temper tantrums. Not once had she hung out at the mall with friends or giggled over some new boy in class. She didn’t know what her favorite song was or how to lie peacefully in her bed at night and close her eyes so she could dream.
Sleep was a huge challenge for Minh. For her whole life, she was used to catching just a few winks of sleep either on the way to or from the brothel. Her bedroom at home was a torture chamber. She longed for memories of someone tucking her in and whispering sleep tight. So, one of the first steps in her recovery was learning how to turn off her light and trust that it was safe to sink her head into the pillow.
Easier said than done.
