Last night I dreamed I was a trafficked woman in the sex trade (disclaimer: this was a dream, I do not pretend to know the awful reality of what these women actually go through on a daily basis or how they escape; I only know what I dreamed).
I dreamed that it was a cloudy, windy day. I had to go out and work the streets for my master who terrified me. I went out wearing only a string bikini and an oversized jacket--as a concession from my master to the weather. The jacket covered my arms and torso and I could shield my hands by driving them deep into the pockets, but my legs were exposed. The wind was biting against my bear legs and I was so embarrassed, so ashamed, and yet my fear compelled me out onto the streets. And so I walked. I didn't know who might be associated with my master, and who might report me to him, so I always behaved as if he were watching my every move. The men who leered at me and whistled at my bare legs frightened and disgusted me, but I flirted with them. I had to, I was so afraid of my master's anger.
As I walked I was miserable. I knew I didn't want to live this life. I knew I wanted out of here. I wanted to be warm and loved and cared for, but I didn't think that was possible. I started back, toward the brothel where I lived. As I walked my walk of shame in the frigid wind, a police car drove along the street behind me. I knew that these men had the power either to set me free or punish me for what I was doing. I hoped they would set me free, but I feared my master, so I tried not to draw their attention. Nevertheless, I was so cold I wanted to get back to the brothel quickly, where at least I would be out of the wind. So, when it came time to cross a street, I jaywalked in front of the cop car. At first nothing happened. The car turned on the same street I was walking down and drove past as I continued walking. Then, the car turned and stopped in a parking lot. Two officers came out and approached me. "How old are you, miss?" one of them asked. I knew what they were asking. I was clearly a hooker, and if I was under 18, I was illegally employed. I guess I could have answered a lot of ways. I could have told them that I was underage and begged them to get me out of here. I could have told them I wasn't, and pleased my master. But I was so miserable and afraid I broke down and in tears told them the truth. "I don't know if I'm over 18," I said. I was at their mercy. I was either a criminal or a victim and they could decide how to deal with me, punish me or rescue me, or leave me to my master--who would no doubt be upset.
"That's alright, miss," said the officer, putting his arm around my shoulder and leading me off the sidewalk. "You can come with us." He took me to the car and said they'd take me away from here. One of them started calling in a trafficked juvenile rescued while the other opened the back door for me. In the back seat, I found a folded set of clothes, for me. On top was a pair of pants--probably one of the officer's cast-offs--to cover my freezing legs. I pulled them on immediately. "Thank you for the pants!" I said, and then I woke up.
On waking, I immediately realized there was more to my dream then met the eye. Though I was not a trafficked girl, I was the girl in my dream. I had been a slave to sin. Satan was my master, hemming me in with fear, guilt, and shame--keeping me in sin. I don't want to live that life, I didn't want to, but I couldn't get out on my own. God came, like the cops in my dream. He could have condemned me, prostituting myself to other gods and offending Him. He could have left me. But He didn't, He called to me and I admitted the helplessness of my situation to Him. Then, He saved me. He covered me over with His own love and righteousness, like that pair of pants--taking away my shame and shielding me from the world. "Thank you for the pants, God," I whispered.
I dreamed that it was a cloudy, windy day. I had to go out and work the streets for my master who terrified me. I went out wearing only a string bikini and an oversized jacket--as a concession from my master to the weather. The jacket covered my arms and torso and I could shield my hands by driving them deep into the pockets, but my legs were exposed. The wind was biting against my bear legs and I was so embarrassed, so ashamed, and yet my fear compelled me out onto the streets. And so I walked. I didn't know who might be associated with my master, and who might report me to him, so I always behaved as if he were watching my every move. The men who leered at me and whistled at my bare legs frightened and disgusted me, but I flirted with them. I had to, I was so afraid of my master's anger.
As I walked I was miserable. I knew I didn't want to live this life. I knew I wanted out of here. I wanted to be warm and loved and cared for, but I didn't think that was possible. I started back, toward the brothel where I lived. As I walked my walk of shame in the frigid wind, a police car drove along the street behind me. I knew that these men had the power either to set me free or punish me for what I was doing. I hoped they would set me free, but I feared my master, so I tried not to draw their attention. Nevertheless, I was so cold I wanted to get back to the brothel quickly, where at least I would be out of the wind. So, when it came time to cross a street, I jaywalked in front of the cop car. At first nothing happened. The car turned on the same street I was walking down and drove past as I continued walking. Then, the car turned and stopped in a parking lot. Two officers came out and approached me. "How old are you, miss?" one of them asked. I knew what they were asking. I was clearly a hooker, and if I was under 18, I was illegally employed. I guess I could have answered a lot of ways. I could have told them that I was underage and begged them to get me out of here. I could have told them I wasn't, and pleased my master. But I was so miserable and afraid I broke down and in tears told them the truth. "I don't know if I'm over 18," I said. I was at their mercy. I was either a criminal or a victim and they could decide how to deal with me, punish me or rescue me, or leave me to my master--who would no doubt be upset.
"That's alright, miss," said the officer, putting his arm around my shoulder and leading me off the sidewalk. "You can come with us." He took me to the car and said they'd take me away from here. One of them started calling in a trafficked juvenile rescued while the other opened the back door for me. In the back seat, I found a folded set of clothes, for me. On top was a pair of pants--probably one of the officer's cast-offs--to cover my freezing legs. I pulled them on immediately. "Thank you for the pants!" I said, and then I woke up.
On waking, I immediately realized there was more to my dream then met the eye. Though I was not a trafficked girl, I was the girl in my dream. I had been a slave to sin. Satan was my master, hemming me in with fear, guilt, and shame--keeping me in sin. I don't want to live that life, I didn't want to, but I couldn't get out on my own. God came, like the cops in my dream. He could have condemned me, prostituting myself to other gods and offending Him. He could have left me. But He didn't, He called to me and I admitted the helplessness of my situation to Him. Then, He saved me. He covered me over with His own love and righteousness, like that pair of pants--taking away my shame and shielding me from the world. "Thank you for the pants, God," I whispered.
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