Through the Cemetery

Today was a tough day for a number of reasons.  The Bruins lost last night so I didn’t sleep well; Thomas and I wanted to watch at least the first set of the French Open this morning but Roger Federer made it a lot longer than it should have been; I found it difficult to leave the hotel after enjoying the wedding so much yesterday; the last day I had ridden more than 30 miles in a day was Wednesday so my legs were a little stiff; and probably a lot of other reasons because I want you all to feel bad for me, eh.  For whatever reason, too, my stomach started acting up part-way through the ride and made it difficult to keep pace.  Oh, and about twelve of the 58 miles from Canton to Jackson, MI were dirt roads that weren’t well-kept, meaning I had to keep switching bikes.  All of that made me very thankful that Thomas wanted to get exercise today so he rode quite a few miles today. 

One thing that did make me happy was that we left with the third set of jerseys for my trip.  I left D.C. with Wesley Theological Seminary jerseys and personal jerseys to soothe my ego.  Now I have Polaris Project jerseys with the phone number for the National Human Trafficking Hotline on the back to advertise that most useful of resources for all of us to stay informed and to report possible trafficking cases.  I continue to hope that all of you will go to the Polaris Project website at polarisproject.org and perhaps even call the hotline to get information on how serious and widespread slavery is in our world and our country today, and to find out ways to spot cases of trafficking.

At one point today I heard this over the radio, “Ok, now take a right into the cemetery.”  Because I had been cracking jokes all day, and knowing Thomas, I figured he was joking.  Plus, why in the world would I want to ride through a cemetery?  I just thought it was a joke.  But alas, it was no joke.  So I turned into the cemetery and tried to be somewhat solemn by pedaling slowly, but nothing I could do made me feel appropriately respectful.  Thankfully, the road didn’t last very long and I came out on the other side within a few minutes.  Still, the experience was not a pleasant one.

My mother has tried very hard to try and calm down my controversial comments, arguing that this is not the time nor the place to make people angry.  Perhaps she’s right.  In my opinion, though, people can’t sit back and say, “Oh John, what you’re doing is so great!  You should be so proud,” and then maybe donate some money, and then be done.  Our lives must be changed and, the way I see it, we all need to become radically justice-oriented.  You may disagree with the things I say but I intend, through your anger with me if necessary, to plant a seed in your mind that will be sown in the near future.  I’m writing this paragraph not to be stubborn, per se, but because I truly believe that to make the choice to be committed is difficult, and I truly believe that putting myself out there for all to see and to invite you to struggle with me is the only way that any of us will make that choice.  And being committed is certainly absolutely necessary. As Gary Haugen writes, “Let there be no mistake, evil and injustice thrive on moral ambiguity, equivocation, confusion and the failure to commit… we must know that injustice is strong, forceful, committed.  In every case it will prevail against the uncertain, the unsure and the uncommitted.”  I don’t care what you believe, I don’t care if I offend you even or say something that you think is ridiculous, I just want you to come to terms with how serious this is and how urgently we all need to commit.  We must all ride through the cemetery, unpleasantly and slowly, but it is through the cemetery that we will get to where we’re going.

With all that said, riding through the cemetery for me means changing the way I write a little bit and listening to my mother for once.  So, instead of spouting out what I believe, I’ll share with you some real stories from former slaves, as taken from the new sex trafficking magazine, Bitter Sweet.  Keep in mind, all these stories are from the UNITED STATES, from within our country, generally from people born American as well.  Human trafficking/slavery is not exclusive to third-world, Asian, or African countries.  Human trafficking is equally prevalent, IF NOT MORE, in the U.S. as it is in China, in Romania or Spain as it is in Somalia.  Massachusetts just had to pass a law on human trafficking (and thank God for that!  More on that later).  Ok, without further ado:

“I’m not sure if I was 5 or 6 when my mother started selling me to men.  Usually, she sold me for a small amount of drugs.  When I was 13 years old, I ran away and met a man 20 years my senior, who told me he would take care of me.  However, it wasn’t long before he made me work on the street.  I had to bring a quota of $800 every night.”- Beth, 17 years old; Courtney’s House

“I remember being 10 years old and my mother putting makeup on me and telling me she loved me, then opening her bedroom door where a man sat there waiting for me.  My mother then put me in the room and closed the door.  She told me it wouldn’t take long.”-Kelly, 17 years old; Courtney’s House

“In 2009, I met a man twice my age who pretended to be my boyfriend.  This ‘boyfriend’ soon revealed he was a pimp.  He put my picture on Craigslist, and I was sold for sex by the hour at truck stops and cheap motels [like the Lamplighter Motel that we stayed at the other night]—10 hours with 10 different men every night.  This became my life.

Men answered the Craigslist advertisements and paid to rape me.  The $30,000 he pocketed each month was facilitated by Craigslist 300 times [Craigslist is projected to make $36 million from selling sex ads; Rebecca Project].  I personally know over 20 girls who were trafficked through Craigslist.  Like me, they were taken from city to city, each time sold on a different Craigslist site—Philadelphia, Dallas, Milwaukee, Washington, D.C.  My phone would ring, and soon men would line up in the parking lot.”-AK, 18 years old; Fair Fund