Nobody's Girl

by Barbara Amaya

  These people know that if they apply just the right amount of what seems like love and attention and then add in some violence, they will have constructed a pliable commodity that will obey their every command.

  And that is just what the victims are to traffickers and pimps: a commodity, nothing more. The sad thing is, I didn’t realize I was only a dollar sign; I really believed I was being protected, loved, and disciplined.

  I told Samantha that I hadn’t even known I was a victim. “At first I’d always thought it was all my idea, everything from being out on the street to not being able to leave,” I said. “It’s only now that I realize that the way I was manipulated and programmed by Moses caused me to bond with him. What was happening to me and happens to all the other young victims of human trafficking is a complicated mental process. I thought that Moses was taking care of me. Moses knew that and used it to make me do what he wanted.”

  I looked at my daughter to see if she understood what I was saying.

  “It’s like battered wives, isn’t it? The ones who can’t bring themselves to leave their abusive husbands.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “There were so many times I wanted to leave but couldn’t pull away, and I didn’t even know why. I know now that until that bond between victim and trafficker is broken, girls won’t be able to leave. I want people to understand that.”

  Talking about my past made me realize that I still had the same fear of Moses as I had years before, even though I knew I was safe from him now. I was terrified just thinking about him. Maybe deep inside I needed closure—to find out what had happened to the person who had stolen a decade of my young life.

  I asked my friend Eric, a private detective, for help. We chatted online as I described my trafficker and shared details about my past, and before I knew it, Eric had messaged me back: he had found out that Moses had been arrested for drugs and weapons charges and sent back to Akron, Ohio to serve time in prison there.

  We managed to locate a police officer in Ohio who was nice enough to talk to me and even send me a photo of Moses. When I saw that image fill my computer screen, I started to shake the same way I always had.

  But then something happened that I had not expected.

  “Ivory Leon Spears, aka Moses, 180 pounds, five foot seven,” Officer Smith said as he gave me the details that were listed in the prison database.

  “Wait. Hold on, please. What did you just say? Five foot what?”

  I was stunned. Five foot seven? That was impossible! I remembered a tall, towering person, a violent and monstrous being standing over me, beating me with wire coat hangers and terrifying me with his huge presence. Now I’d just heard that Moses was five foot seven. What the heck—I was five foot nine!

  But as I listened and thought it over, it started to make sense to me. Of course I viewed Moses as larger than life, even though I was taller than him. He had manipulated my mind and exploited my youth and abused my body. With every single beating and each horrible name he called me, he had grown in height and size in my troubled mind.

  After talking to Officer Smith, I finally began to see Moses as his true self—a small, sad, deformed person and a pathetic trafficker of girls who were weaker than him.

  Later I found out that Moses had died while in prison. I didn’t ask how he died; I didn’t want to give him or his death any more time or attention than it deserved. But knowing that he was gone helped me to heal. I posted his photo online so that his other victims would see that he could never hurt them again.

  I got different reactions to his death. Some offered congratulations, saying I should celebrate. Others said that karma was good. My own reaction surprised me greatly. Instead of feeling happy that he was gone, I felt sadness. Not from missing him; I was sad that he’d had such a wasted life, a life that could have been spent so differently. Instead of preying upon vulnerable young women, Moses could have made his time on earth mean something. He could have helped rather than hurt others. But he chose not to, and he died all alone in prison.

  I got closure of a different sort when my father passed away soon after, from cancer. I went to see him before he died. His frail body under the heavy blue blanket seemed to be hardly there at all, all bones. I slowly walked toward the bed and leaned closer to see if his eyes were open.

  “Dad?”

  His eyes fluttered, then opened slightly. I could barely hear him speak. “Barbara? Is that you?”

  I didn’t answer at first. I pulled a wooden chair closer to his bed and sat down. “Yes, I’m here.”

  The rest of the afternoon I sat by his bedside, holding his skeletal hand. I thought of the times when everything was good—vacations spent camping, roasting marshmallows, playing on sunny beaches, and swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. I remembered Christmases spent at home, everyone playing around in the snow, opening presents, happy. And I then thought of all the times in the living room when the father I’d known had disappeared.

  My father slept and didn’t talk, and neither did I.

  On the day I was to leave I sat in his room by his bedside. “I’m going home tonight,” I said.

  He remained silent. I don’t know whether he heard me or if he even had the strength to reply.

  “And I wanted to tell you that I just don’t understand why. Why did you do what you did to me? Why me? Just tell me.”

  I didn’t expect an answer, not really, but just asking him out loud what I’d been holding inside for so many years took tremendous courage. “You hurt me. You changed me forever. I had loved you. You were my father.” I stood up, tears falling down my face.

  And as I walked toward the door I heard him cough and begin to form faint words.

  “Never you…it was not you, never you.” His eyes were closed and I wondered if I’d imagined those words, but I’d seen his mouth moving.

  On my return flight home, I puzzled over his words and what they meant. Never me? Only him? Did he mean it was all his fault? Or did he mean to stop blaming myself for his actions? It wasn’t the grand apology I’d longed for, but it was all I was going to get.

  Two days later my sister called and said that he’d passed in the night. She asked if I was returning for the small funeral they had planned, but I decided not to go. I’d gotten all he would ever be able to give.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  During my advocacy research, I discovered that in 2010 the State of New York had passed statutes allowing survivors of human trafficking to vacate convictions they never should have received. Then I came across a New York group that worked with survivors looking to do this. They referred me to a law firm in DC that did pro bono work, and I began my yearlong journey to clear my record.

  Working with the lawyers was a real gift to me. I appreciated everything they did, especially how respectful they were; they seemed interested in me as a person, not just in hearing my story. They always sent a car service to bring me to their offices, and made sure that I was comfortable and happy. As the case continued, they gently explained to me that I had to go back to New York to appear in front of the judge.

  New York held such conflicting memories. I had not been back to the city for decades; nothing could pull me back into the place where I had lost myself, my very soul. But I had grown up there, too, and it was a part of me, even though my teenage years hadn’t included dances, flowers, and first kisses. Instead I remembered all the nights I had spent on the streets, afraid to go back to whatever hotel I was living in—afraid because I hadn’t made enough money for Moses, and because I knew this would earn me a beating.

  Sitting in the Manhattan courtroom where I was taken as a frightened young girl was surreal and still very scary. I was in the same room, maybe sitting on the same wooden bench. The walls and windows were the same. I thought about the hard metal benches where I had sat hugging myself as I rocked back and forth, trying to comfort myself as best I could. I could almost smell the unwashed bodies of the other women who had been locked up for days without a shower or a ch
ange of clothes. I could see my fourteen-year-old self, terrified and alone.

  But I was different. I was a grown woman now. And I told the little girl inside to not be scared anymore. I told her it was okay to cry and let it all go, and I told her she no longer had to be ashamed. I told her it wasn’t her fault.

  Still, I felt so embarrassed as the judge read off the list of aliases I’d used and the dozens of docket numbers I had accumulated over my time in New York. How many times had I been arrested? I had lost count, but the aliases and false birthdates went on and on: “Barbara Smith, Susan Clarkson, Barbara Squeo, Barbara Smithson, Susan Howard…”

  My lawyers spoke for me. “Your Honor, we are here today to file the motion to vacate the criminal cases you have before you. We also want to commend Ms. Amaya for all she has overcome in her life over the years and for her recent work as an activist.”

  Then the judge looked at me. “I’ve read over your attorneys’ briefs and the motion to vacate, and I am also familiar with your entire case and your story, Ms. Amaya. I have read articles from your Washington Times column, and I have seen videos of your presentations. I want to commend you on your strength and courage for overcoming all the adversity you have faced in your life. I also want to congratulate you on all of the advocacy work you’re doing in the anti-trafficking community. You are really making a difference. Your motion to vacate is granted. Do you have anything you would like to say to the court?”

  He handed the papers to the court clerk, and glanced at me expectantly.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” That was all I could muster up; I was overcome with emotion. My attorneys were standing on either side of me, and they moved nearer, holding me up with their closeness.

  As I turned and faced the door, tears fell down my face. I was finally free. All those arrests, even the Rikers Island visit, were gone from my record. They would always be there in the past, but they could no longer come back to haunt me at a random traffic stop or on a bank application.

  No longer did I have to fear the stigma of a criminal record. I wasn’t a criminal, but a victim—and now I finally had proof.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  As I stand behind the wooden podium and look out into the rows of people waiting for me to speak, I feel my heart beating and my blood flowing. I smell my sweat. But I’m alive. I’m still here.

  I remember what Moses told me and what he beat into me, how he said I must never trust anyone and never say a word to anyone about the life and all the rules. How I should never give my real name or age or explain what we did. How I must always keep quiet. How I must never tell.

  And in that moment, once again, I choose to tell. I will tell the truth and tell it to everyone. I choose to no longer be silent. I am not afraid of him or his beatings. He does not control me anymore. He never will again.

  So I tell. I talk and I tell all from the very beginning, even from the very first abuse in my home when I was so little. I tell how I suffered and was afraid. I tell how I was confused, and how I only wanted to be loved.

  The words flow, and I am not sure how the people will react; but when I see them stand and begin to clap, my heart soars and I feel so strong, stronger than I’ve ever felt.

  I know for sure then that he lied to me. I am the strong one.

  I am in control.

  And I understand now, really understand: I am no longer nobody’s girl. I am a strong woman with a powerful voice, a voice that can protect others from the same fate that I suffered.

  I turn to look at my beautiful daughter, and as I smile, she smiles back. And finally, after all these years, I know she understands me as well.

  RESOURCES

  I want to thank you for reading my book and to share a few last words and resources with you.

  It took me many years to self-identify as a victim of sex trafficking. Sadly, today there are thousands of young men and women who are just like I used to be, out there on the track without even knowing they are victims. They are raped, beaten, traumatized, and abused by both their traffickers and the men who seek to rent their bodies. Sustaining the trauma of a war zone or a torture chamber, then becoming addicted to drugs to keep sane while doing it—this is and has been a reality for countless victims.

  They are the reason I wrote this book, and they are why I do the work I do today.

  We all have the power to make a difference in our own lives and in the lives of others. And when it comes to anti-trafficking activism, there are so many ways to make a difference, depending on your abilities and the level of involvement you want to offer.

  In this final chapter I offer resources to five communities I believe have the ability to make a difference in the prevention of human trafficking and in the lives of human trafficking victims and survivors.

  General

  Consider developing a protocol to follow should you encounter a potential victim of human trafficking in your school, hospital, or police station. At the very least you should do the following:

  Designate a person to interview and spend time with suspected victims. This person should be trained in trauma-based therapy, and should know how to identify and interview a victim of human trafficking.

  Contact the National Hotline at 1-888-373-7888 to find local organizations near you. If you are not a member of law enforcement, contact Homeland Security at 1-866-347-2423 for information on how to get in touch with local law enforcement.

  Develop guidelines on how to separate the victim from the trafficker if the trafficker is present. Interpreter services and lists of interpreters should be available.

  Get the following information from both the potential victim and the trafficker: name, address, phone number, photocopy of any identification documents, and license plate number of any vehicles.

  Law enforcement

  The law enforcement community, which Moses programmed me to hate and mistrust, has some of the greatest opportunities to make a difference in the lives of victims.

  1.Attend training designed for law enforcement. I have developed a training program, Law Enforcement Interviewing and Identifying Victims of Human Trafficking and Beyond (www.barbaraamaya.com), that includes the survivor voice; this is an element I feel should be included in all education and training resources. The Department of Homeland Security’s Blue Campaign (www.dhs.gov) also offers law enforcement training about human trafficking.

  2.Educate yourself and begin to change your beliefs about whether a young victim of trafficking is actually a victim or a criminal. This is the key to that victim getting the services they need—or not. Gaining the trust of someone who has been programmed to hate the human race and view them all as dollar signs is no easy task. But if you start from a place of viewing the person in front of you as a fellow human being and not a criminal, then you have a great start.

  3.Learn how to recognize and interview victims of human trafficking. The Department of Health and Human Services’s Rescue and Restore campaign offers a screening and assessment toolkit for law enforcement (www.acf.hhs.gov). The Vera Institute of Justice’s Trafficking Victims Identification Tool is another good resource (www.vera.org). Vera is a nationwide nonprofit center for justice policy and practice.

  4.Maintain a list of possible resources for victims of trafficking, especially juvenile victims and their parents. The National Center for Missing & Exploited Children (NCMEC) has up-to-date information and can help victims locate resources in their home state (www.missingkids.com).

  Medical personnel

  Medical personnel and other first responders also share the opportunity to bring victims of sex trafficking back to the real world. Doctors, nurses, EMTs, and other hospital, clinic, and medical personnel are in the front lines and will often come across victims of human trafficking and not even know it. While I was being trafficked I did not have medical insurance, and when I was hurt or sick I visited the emergency room. Sadly, no one there was trained to recognize people like me.

  1.Learn the signs that may id
entity a victim of human trafficking. This list is not all-inclusive; there is no list anywhere that is. However, if you think something is wrong, it probably is. Take time to ask questions.

  The victim/patient

  •has tattoos on the neck or back and seems unable or reluctant to explain them

  •does not seem free to leave or come and go as they wish

  •bears other kinds of branding, such as cutting or burning

  •has unexplained or unusual scar tissue in the vagina

  •has multiple or frequent sexually transmitted diseases

  •displays incongruence between behavior and reported age

  •is fearful, anxious, depressed, submissive, tense, or paranoid

  •exhibits unusually fearful or anxious behavior after bringing up law enforcement

  •avoids eye contact

  •shows signs of physical and/or sexual abuse, physical restraint, confinement, or torture

  •is not in control of their own money or financial records

  •is not in control of their own identification documents

  •is not allowed or able to speak for themselves (a third party may insist on being present and/or translating)

  •uses language from the trafficking underworld (e.g., calling a boyfriend “Daddy”)

  •claims to be just visiting but cannot identify where they are staying or what city they are in

  •has numerous inconsistencies in their story

  2.Attend a training developed specifically for medical personnel on interviewing, identifying, and assessing victims of human trafficking. An example is Massachusetts General Hospital’s Guidebook on Identification Assessment and Rescue in the Healthcare Setting (www.massmed.org).

  3.Besides familiarizing yourself with the signs identifying possible victims of human trafficking, be aware that victims who have experienced trauma, depending on each unique situation, will need a professional trained in trauma-based therapy. Many victims suffer from the same PTSD symptoms as combat veterans, domestic violence survivors, rape survivors, and other victims of violence. Healing must begin with the deprogramming of the trafficker-victim trauma bond, and in my opinion this must occur before any other services can take place. If a victim is still bonded to their trafficker, they will run right back to the person they feel they belong with.