Trashy Journalism

Last year (2015) I attended a training on the identification and assessment of the needs for intervening with CSEC; I attended the update earlier this month (12/16). CSEC is the commercial sexual exploitation of children. It’s a multimillion, if not multibillion per year business here in these USA as well as globally. Of the top centers in the world, we here in California can disappointedly claim three of them: Los Angeles, San Francisco & San Diego. Two of the main streets/locales that are common are the Figueroa corridor stretching from the Port of Los Angeles through, and past, University of Southern California. The other is Long Beach Blvd, with a lot of activity in Compton.

The CSEC population comprises of children, many who are victimized at 11 years old for the first time by their pimp. But this isn’t their first forced foray into trauma and victimhood: they’re likely to have been sexually molested by family members, witnesses to domestic violence, been in group foster homes because their home environment is deemed entirely too unsafe for them to remain there. These boys and girls frequently run away, but also are sold into CSEC by family – sometimes unwittingly (i.e. gang families, indentured overseas, coyotes).

One of the biggest impediments to working and obtaining help for these children is the lifespan they have once they enter CSEC: 7 years. Many do not live to be 20 years old. They are gang raped, drugged, beaten, starved. They are branded with tattoos or have microchips (yes, like Fido) embedded so that if they do manage to run away from the Pimp/John/Bottom-Bitch they are easily tracked, beaten for punishment. If a pimp, John, or Bottom Bitch has too much trouble with a girl or boy, they will kill them. Survival only happens if social services and DHS intervene, or if the child is abandoned by the pimps, but not without consequence. Frequently if a child is not killed for being troublesome to the pimp, they are burned with acid resulting in severe disfigurement.

The second impediment has been the issue with law enforcement labeling the children as criminals (i.e. charged with prostitution) instead of victims. When pimps and johns are caught, arrested, they have to attend a class on child prostitution to attend and it’s expunged from their record after 6 months. It’s on the record of the children forever.

A child cannot consent to sex. A child is not a criminal. He, or she, is a victim. There’s a growing number of boys being trafficked through the LBGT community in Hollywood, and they have pimps just like the girls. Instead of criminalizing children, let’s criminalize the johns and pimps. But you can’t have pimps and johns being thought of as the victim AND the child. So, we decriminalize prostitution to keep the children off the books, and start labeling the johns and pimps as criminals, start putting them into the sex offender registry.

What a dirty piece of trash journalism this link is!

Silence

I’m thinking about silence itself as an object/presence recently. Immediately in my reaction field is a post I was reading from another blogger here on WP.

In my work as a child and adolescent therapist to some of the poorer children (the poorest live on skid row and I don’t have the stomach to work with that population) of Los Angeles; specifically called SPA 8 (Service Provider Area 8). I’ve had the special privilege of working with different young women, all under the age of 15 years of age who have been raped, sexually assaulted, attempted sexual assault/molestation, and/or sexual harassment. Each one has told me that they considered themselves to be the only one until they confided in a friend, cousin, or aunt near to their age (under 20 years of age); then they tell me, “I told her to tell someone about what she was going through”. Can we just get this over and done with?

Ladies/Girls/Women, let’s just admit that the men in our lives want us to feel alone. They want us to be frightened and feel alone! Yet, the reality is that more women and girls are assaulted, harrassed, abused by people they know than absolute strangers.

And abuse, physical abuse is the same story and I totally want to jump in there with the kid and be like “Yeah, I know!” but I can’t. The therapy hour is totally about them, and I pull myself back inside and be all like “Yeah? Can you tell me about what makes you scared?” or “What’s that like?” I stay on the back-burner and may save my urge to blurt out for my own therapy sessions where I get triggered/reminded of getting hit on the back my head or back with shoes or slippers (and you wonder why the F I hate the color pink or her perfume or being touched at all, least of all being touched or hugged or anything by her); that evening I watched the filled Mayo jar fly by me, missing me by golly-knows-what; choosing dissociation in the closet instead of listening to the litany of Megan’s-fucked-up-as-a-daughter-because.

You know what’s also the same fucking story? (I know, a wanna-be-nun just said the F word. Pick your jaw off the floor, ‘cuz she’s heard and said so much more worse in the past). Getting harassed and bullied at work by your supervisor. I’m taking the fall because I told my supervisor’s boss that she made comments which I considered to be inappropriate. About the 3rd week of September I received information from a client’s caregiver about A/V hallucinations, and my supervisor in the course of consulting with another supervisor, stated “Oh, is this your wife?” My roommate (a co-worker) and her supervisor were in the room. As it was out of context, inappropriate, and I’m generally reserved, I didn’t say a damn thing at the moment.  However I did email my supervisor’s supervisor about her statements, explaining that I felt they were:

Hi [Supervisor’s Supervisor],

I want to make a complaint about a statement [Name redacted to protect the not-so-innocent] made to me yesterday in front of another employee & supervisor. We had gone to the back of the [Location] office to consult with [Roommate’s supervisor] about a cx [client] of mine. To this other employee (who is my roommate, [name removed]) and in front of her supervisor, [my supervisor] said, “Oh, is this your wife?”  I corrected it immediately as “No, she’s my roommate.”
Myself and my roommate felt it was inappropriate; I’m embarrassed.
I’m making a complaint as this is not the first time [the not-so-innocent] has made inappropriate comments about faith/personal issues to me; I’ve addressed them with her in the past and thought it was taken care of. I can talk more about those  with you’d like.
I write that I’m taking the fall because I’m the one getting pegged for distinct deadlines prior to the company’s established deadlines for monthly paperwork; my supervision time is being double-booked two weeks in a row and my supervisor says “oh, I messed up…no I didn’t”; she hangs up on me, she conveniently “never” receives my text messages (I can prove this via phone company) ; she gives me the clients that she’s having assigned to her (I can also prove this), which she needs to be credentialed in an evidence-based practice (one of our primary sources of funding); she does not listen to me pertaining to being able to either submit notes on-time, or completing paperwork to her superficial deadlines but not both (I have multiple witnesses). I’ll be harassed, picked on and bullied until my body collapses or she finds someone else to bully.
Yet, there’s another side to silence, where I can find peace instead of noise, calm instead of jarring harassment; can breathe without needing to calm my pinched and firing nerve[s]. For me this kind of silence is filled with incense, Gregorian Chant and sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows. Usually, I’ve just beginning to grasp this kind of silence at the end of the Mass of the Catechumens. Currently, I take a single line from the Anima Christi “Hide me in Your wounds” because it’s the only place that has been once-struck and never struck again. That blow is finished for all time, and He is righteous and reigns again. I can hide wherever I want to, but I crawl into the lance-blow, and imagine Momma Mary holds the body of her Son one last moment as in the Pieta and clasps her hand over me, not only keeping me hidden but I cannot fall out either. I sleep with a Crucifix clutched in my hands because it’s the only way I can sleep through the night without waking up every 2 hours. One of these days I’ll walk behind the closed doors of a monastery which St. Therese of the Child Jesus frequently called a prisoner; however it’s the first time I won’t be imprisoned. I’ll be able to openly declare/be myself without fear of reprimand. Nothing should slow my mother down on reprimanding me about how I’ll cause the doom-and-gloom on her marriage and am an utter disgrace more than a 7 hour drive to San Francisco. I hope I laugh when I should be silent.