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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