Illumination : Shedding nonfiction
Light on Human Trafficking
By Melissa Martin
Thursday morning I looked out my kitchen window at the small sliver of sidewalk poking through the bushes . Sunlight streamed through the February air , brightening the cold pavement . Exasperated by the task before me , I let my eyes play in the sunshine . Feet crossed my line of vision : two pairs in sneakers , one pair wearing tights topped with a skirt , and the other in jeggings . Females wear all sorts of skin .
I sipped on my coffee from my quaint little Corelle cup . As I prepared to write , I read an article by Gregory Wolfe on the role of an artist . In the article , he explains that the artist takes on the role of a prophet . He writes , “ The artist and the prophet bring far things near ; they somehow bring the urgencies of the eschatological realm into the mundane world of here and now .”
A little overwhelmed , I cut a piece of homemade bread and smothered it in raspberry jam and Brie . I went back to reading and writing , pausing now and then to look out the window . The image of the sidewalk flashed in and out of my mind as I typed , and something worked its way out of my memory .
I remembered another sunlit sidewalk : it streaked across my window while I drove home from a conference on human trafficking . Conferences are frightening adventures ; you never really know quite what you will hear or how you are going to feel when you leave . I left this conference feeling a bit green . I have seen my fair share of horrifying things , but I never quite understood what I was really looking at .
As I drove home , I decided that I wanted to identify an instance of human trafficking . I did not wish such a horrible experience on anyone , but if human trafficking is an issue we are working to prevent , it must be as prevalent as I was taught at the conference . I felt a little ridiculous , but when I turned onto Franklin from 28th Street , I thought that no one had to know about my little field trip .
I drove down the street , watching feet hit the sidewalk . At a stoplight , a tree restricted my view of the passersby : a pair of brown oxfords over tights was followed by four furry paws . I couldn ’ t see the young woman ’ s face . Then , I saw a pair of bellbottoms over tennis shoes followed by smaller legs wearing flower embellished jeans capped off with tiny winter boots . Women wear all sorts of skin . More legs and feet passed by : a troupe of saggy jeans over bright colored shoes were followed by black high heels and skinny jeans . I laughed to myself : it was a couple hours after noon – what was I expecting to see ? “ It was about noon .” My memory faded as my stomach rumbled . My tongue was dry . I reached for my coffee and bread . Then a cloud passed , and the sun lit up the sidewalk outside once again . As I pondered lunch , I recalled a story of a Samaritan woman who went to her community water well at noon because she was too ashamed to gather with the other women in the morning . For her , a desert dweller , the sun was uncomfortably hot at noon , but she bore the beams of the sun like she bore her burden of shame .
This woman was a prostitute ; she had five husbands and another while living in a highly religious culture . I thought about my drive home from the conference and the thoughts I had as I turned my car from Franklin to Eastern . I remember thinking about the woman in skinny jeans : “ I guess she could be a victim .” My thought was born out of a desire to learn and to notice so that I could address an issue . The thought was bittersweet ; knowledge and awareness are bittersweet . I wanted to know the truth about the young woman . Was my conjecture true ? How could I ever know ?
My stomach and spirit quieted as I sipped at my coffee again , meditating , remembering , praying .
The Samaritan woman found redemption ; she found freedom . Upon finding this freedom , she ran to share her story with others . Her story was important ; it helped her community identify with her and fight against the evil in their society . I ate my bread and sipped on my coffee communing with this thought .
As I look back now , I can see how Wolfe ’ s understanding of an artist can be applied . For me as I endeavored to write this piece , revelation came through the blessing of juxtaposition : noonday sunlight on a sidewalk . The mundane is used to call us to the good news and then drive us into creation . Through a personal ( albeit odd ) understanding of human trafficking , I am enabled to engage you , my audience . This engagement enables the relationship which is rooted in awareness , promoting prevention .
Now I sit with a friend at the same table with another cup of bittersweet coffee , and we watch the sidewalk . Foot traffic is low because it is cold and wet , but we will watch . We will watch all afternoon as we write , as we pray .
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