RISE, A Modern Guide for the Purpose Driven Woman Summer 2014 | Page 28

Jeannette
“That will be $37.00,” the woman behind
the counter tells me.
I pay in cash and place my ticket in the
back pocket of my jeans. I am 22-yearsold and on my way to Nelson, British
Columbia. The bus station is quiet. Only
a handful of travelers mill about the
terminal. One of them is a young woman
my age.
I see her standing by two large bags. She
has dark hair and is my height and build.
I am casually dressed. She is far more
sophisticated in heels, sparkling earrings,
and a black miniskirt. With confidence,
she approaches.
“I’m heading to Canada,” she smiles. “My
names Jeanette. What about you?”
“I am going to Nelson to meet up with
friends I met at a meditation center in
India.” I reach out to shake her hand.
“My name is Amy.”
“That’s awesome. I need to learn how to
meditate!” She laughs. I like her enthusiasm and warmth.
Together we wait for a 10:30AM departure from Spokane, Washington. Soon,
the minivan serving as our bus arrives.
As we get on board, Jeannette tells me, “I
got a great offer to dance in Vancouver.
I’m tired of life in New York. I’m starting over.” The van is empty. Jeannette sits
down next to me and continues. “Yes,
I’m starting over in Canada. I’m done
with the States.”
Within 20 minutes of our departure,
Jeannette suggests that we “toast to a new
beginning.” She winks and reaches into
her bag pulling out a fifth of vodka.
“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t like vodka.”

“OK,” she shrugs. “Well, I do!” Jeannette smiles and unscrews the cap. I
wonder if I should have sat in a different seat.
The heavy-set, middle-aged driver
catches our attention in the rearview
mirror. “Hey girls,” he clears his

throat, “no alcohol allowed.” Jeannette
looks directly at him and takes a drink.
For some reason, he ignores her overt
disregard for the rules. Over the course
of the next hour, she downs half the
bottle.
At first, Jeannette just wants to connect.
For example, she insists that I wear one
of her earrings. “You wear one and I
wear one,” she states. “That way we will
always be friends.” I smell the vodka on
her breath.
Soon, her stories take on a darker dimension. Jeannette spent the better part
of the year hitchhiking across the US
working at various strip clubs. Her experience with truckers involved a great deal
of sexual abuse. “I hate truckers!” she
dramatically shouts. “Do you hear me? I
haaate them!” At this point, it’s clear that
my new traveling companion is drunk.
The driver and I exchange glances of
concern. The Canadian border is just a
few miles away. “They won’t let her in,”
he tells me. “Customs is always on the
look out for runaways or young women
heading to Vancouver to work as strippers.”
Jeannette glares at him. Then, she
slowly places her hands together forming the shape of a gun. With tears of rage
streaming down her cheeks, she points
her “gun” right at the driver’s head.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!” she screams. Her
voice is full of excruciating pain.

The entire experience is beyond surreal. It’s scary. The driver no longer
looks at us. The muscles around his
eyes tighten as he focuses on the
road. I watch Jeanette. She isn’t picturing our driver’s death alone. The
memory of every heartless trucker is
conjured up in her mind as she empties the chamber of her imaginary
gun.
“You. Are. Dead.” Jeannette declares.
She laughs uncontrollably through a
multitude of tears.

“We are at the border,” I tell her softly.
I want to wipe away her tears, her pain,
and her troubled past. I want her to start
over in Canada. I know that’s not going
to happen.
We pull up to the checkpoint window.
“Passports, please,” says the border patrol
officer. Beyond inebriated, Jeanette
struggles to find the required document
while wiping smears of mascara off of
her face. “Miss, please step outside,” he
sternly requests.
“Shhure thing,” Jeannette replies with as
much confidence as she can muster. The
officer walks over to the van. As he opens
the side door, a vodka bottle rolls out
and lands at his feet.
They won’t let her cross. Jeannette curses
and swears. She cries and yells. It takes
three border patrol officers to take her
bags and escort her stumbling body inside. There’s no opportunity for me to say
goodbye. Within a few minutes, we drive
off. My journey to Nelson continues with
one earring in my ear.
“What’s going to happen to her?” I ask
the driver.
“They’ll drop her off at the truck stop
across the border,” he answers and then
he is silent. The van drives on for about
ten minutes. We are both lost in thought.
“The world is full of too much pain,” he
finally says shaking his head.
Body Narratives
Access to view Jeannette’s naked body
required cash. Access to the pain in her
mind and heart simply necessitated
alcohol. Today, her story still haunts
me. Throughout human history, sex has
been sold. There always have been “fallen
women.” But I didn’t see Jeannette this
way. As she shot her imaginary gun, I
saw her aching to reclaim her dignity.
More than an object to use or abuse,
she was a young woman trying to find
her way in this world. Given a radically
different set of experiences and choices,
Jeannette could have been me -- and I
could have been her.