The room couldn ’ t have been more than 6x6 . A round table was squeezed in with three blue chairs positioned around it . Juvenile Detention is stark . My friend Leslie and I sat waiting for a 16-year-old girl to be brought to the visitation room .
Arranging myself in the corner , I realize that I take up too much space .
‘ I should have covered my arms , shouldn ’ t I have ?’ I asked Leslie . ‘ I ’ m gonna freak her out .’ ‘ You ’ re good , little brother . You ’ re with me .’ We were visiting a young woman who ’ d be found herself to be a commodity . A product to be consumed . Brought from Florida by a local pimp , she was sexually exploited by men in my city .
Leslie is a survivor of this abuse . She ’ s brilliant . She ’ s gritty . She should be in this room .
I am 275 pounds . I am heavily tattooed . I am 6 ’ 3 . Worst of all , I am a man . I represent the people who hurt her for cash . What the hell was I doing in that room ? She walked in with her arms folded across her stomach , an oversized , blue sweatshirt covering her frame . She offered Leslie a shy smile and hugged her .
‘ Honey , you ’ re looking good ! Your nails are done … oohhh … you ’ re gonna make it .’ Leslie draped her with compliments and asked follow up questions from their previous visit . Unless Leslie was holding her hands , the girl kept them tucked at her sides . She wrung the cuffs nervously . Vulnerable . ‘ Honey , this is my little brother . He looks out … he looks out for children . Where he goes , I go . Where I go , he goes . We ’ re partners . We ’ re gonna help you do whatever you want .’ Leslie prepped her for my part of the meeting .
The girl sat shifting her glance between the table and my face . This was my cue . ‘ I ’ m not going to pretend I know what happened . I don ’ t . I can tell you honestly that I ’ m sorry it did . I ’ m in a position where I can help you do what you want to do . Whatever you want to happen , I want to help make that happen .’ God , I sound like a bad salesman . By this point , my throat was hurting . I realized that my voice was coming out like an old record , scratching out my sympathies . I tend to boom my words out when I know ( or think I know ) what I ’ m talking about .
I threw a cough drop in my mouth , but I wasn ’ t sick . My body was just having a reaction to my attempts to appear smaller – vulnerable . If I leaned across the table , her arms would hold tighter to her belly . If I laughed with Leslie , the girl would smile , but shift awkwardly as if she was unsure if we were actually laughing at her .
As I tried to listen , she tried to talk . Neither of us knew exactly what we were looking for at that moment . Leslie was gracious to us both . She allowed us both to feel strong with her .
After an hour , we ’ d made a plan for our next visit . I ’ d written down the steps on my notepad and made little stars next to the one ’ s that this girl had said were most important to her . I made the stars with broad strokes so she could see me do it .
There ’ s nothing like a punch list to make you feel confident .
Leslie hugged her again and I extended my hand saying something about how it would all be all right . I ’ d heard Leslie say it , but somehow those words fell out of my mouth like a medic promising a dying soldier he ’ d be just fine ( even without his legs ).
As we walked through the double-bolted green doors to leave , I glanced over my shoulder to see this young woman – sold for sex as a child – being led back to her cell like a criminal .
I sat down in the company car and told myself I ’ d never do this again . Clearly , a man should not be the one in that room . I would just be the ‘ resource guy ’ – efficient and detached .
Most importantly , I would never feel that vulnerable again .
Vulnerability must be a philosopher ’ s nightmare . There is no deconstructing vulnerability . When we feel we can define it , it reinvents itself with a new face , body , and eyes .
She was vulnerable . She ’ d been hurt , stripped of her options and dignity . Even through her smile , her pain was as audible as the electric hum of the mechanical locks holding her in the building .
My vulnerability came from a different space . My gift was nothing except for the receiving . The packaging only hindered it ’ s acceptance . I could do little about either reality .
Maslow would point out at this point that my ‘ vulnerability ’ was much farther up the pyramid and , perhaps , I should put on my big boy pants and stop equating myself to a deeply victimized child . I acknowledge that .
However , as we played out this paradox , our interconnectedness and mutual vulnerability existed outside of the ‘ victim ’ and ‘ advocate ’ roles we now played . They existed outside of ‘ petite ’ and ‘ lumbering .’ They existed outside of ‘ female ’ and ‘ male .’
Our vulnerability was rooted in the ‘ gift ’ and the ‘ giver ’, ‘ I and Thou .’
If I reject my place in that cell , I reject the gift she offers me .
We returned the following week – offering our gifts and receiving hers .