SheLoves Magazine

Our Women are Not for Sale: Abolitionist Trisha Baptie responds to Ontario court’s Ruling on Prostitution Laws

Earlier this week an Ontario court struck down three anti-prostitution laws in Canada. Justice Susan Himel ruled that criminal prohibitions on running brothels, communicating for the purpose of prostitution and living off the avails of prostitution put the lives of sex workers at risk. Trisha Baptie, a former experiential woman and abolitionist, responds to this ruling.

By Trisha Baptie

It’s been two days now that I’ve woken up and felt like I am in the wrong country. I mean it’s the first thing that comes crashing into my mind even before I’d opened my eyes. Feelings of abandonment sweep over me: abandoned by my country, by the rogue judge that felt it was her job to insert what is clearly her own agenda into this topic and a genuine feeling of dread for Canadian women.

I  feel a bit like a storage container for all the ugly and rancid truth involved in prostitution. The truth that can get filtered out in abstract debates about “free choice,” autonomy, free agency or whatever the new catch phrase is for the very wrong belief “that those women did it to themselves” or “if they didn’t like their job they would leave.” The belief that we choose this.

For two days I have woken up knowing a few provinces away, in the name of a privileged few, Canadian women from all walks have been abandoned.

Wading into the Truth

I have paused a bit to take a breath, read the judge’s actual decision, allow most of the sensationalitic press to die down and wade into the truth. The truth? What was struck down from the criminal code was communicating, keeping a bawdy house and living off the avails. None of the laws dealing with persons under 18 was changed.

This will not take effect for 30 days and the Canadian Government announced it will appeal. There are steps that can be taken so the laws will stay in place until it makes its way through Supreme Court, but by then abolitionists across the country are hoping the Government will table legislation that will further the step forward this decision took.

A Step Forward?

You noticed that didn’t you? I did call it a step forward. What abolitionists are calling for is the decriminalization of women–that’s what happened. What we are also calling for is the criminalization of the demand for paid sex, pimping, procuring and trafficking.

I should state, for the record, the primary applicant in this week’s case in Ontario presents as a confident woman in her 50s today, but her affidavit tells a story of a childhood filled with physical, psychological and sexual abuse. At 16, while in child protection, she met “an abusive 37-year-old drug dealer and drug addict” and began being sold for sex to fund both of their drug addictions.

Is it a choice if prostitution chooses you at 16?

Is she really an “empowered woman” exercising her free will? While I don’t want to encourage a paternalistic attitude or sound like I am saying no abuse victim can ever exercise free will over their sexuality, I think that debate can actually sidetrack us.  By engaging in that debate, the real question still hides and the real problem grows bigger and bigger. The real question we haven’t asked is: Who is doing this violence? Who is making prostitution unsafe?

Is it the laws? Last time I was assaulted, it was by a man, not the law. It was not the location I was in that was unsafe, it was the man I was in that location with, that was unsafe. It was not the whether or not I could have a conversation with a man beforehand that made the “transaction” unsafe; it was the man who in a moment turned the situation on its head and thought it his right to take from me what he wanted.

The Next Step We Must Take

What we must do is interfere with that thinking by criminalizing the demand: pimping, procuring and trafficking. That is the next step we must make. Women need the State to intervene on our behalf to set the tone of acceptable male behavior. Just like domestic violence needed to be criminalized and have consequences, so too, must we criminalize this behavior.

We must think: five years out from this ruling, how do you see our country? How do you see Canada? Can you see how legalized prostitution can affect your life?

In March, Dutch nurses (in the Netherlands prostitution is legal) had to create a campaign informing patients that sexual services were not part of their nursing job.

If this were to become our reality, let’s consider:

• Would prostitutes be denied welfare because they are leaving their ”job”?
• If it’s just a “job,” will the woefully inadequate exiting services we have now dry up, because if it’s a “job,” why do they need help leaving?
• What does it teach the next generation about healthy relationships between the genders when men have the right to ask any women: “You for sale?”

There is no God or Governmental right to purchase sexual access to women’s bodies. What is a given, in Article 25 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, is a right  to livelihood, food, shelter, clothing and necessary social services.  Those ARE women’s rights. We cannot deny those rights and then say women “choose” prostitution. Women are protected by law from sexual harassment and abuse and I would argue men being allowed to ask women if they are for sale, is a violation of that law.

What we must finally stand up to is the unchecked male demand for paid sexual access to women’s bodies and say: Our women are NOT for sale.

Make Some Noise: LET’S TAKE ACTION

Take five minutes and let your voice be heard: It’s time to write/phone/fax/email your MP and tell them to support the Swedish model of law that criminalizes the john. Tell your MP that demand–pimping, procuring and trafficking–should be criminalized, while the women stay decriminalized. Here’s a link to find your MP.

About Trisha:

Trisha Baptie is Executive Director of Honour Consulting and founding member of EVE (formerly Exploited Voices now Educating). In 2008 she won BC’s Courage to Come Back Award for her bravery in transitioning to a healthier lifestyle, for giving the murdered women of Vancouver a voice through her trial coverage of Vancouver’s serial killer and for her ongoing activism. Follow Trisha’s tweets at @trisha_baptie or friend her on facebook.

Also check out this article by Trisha:

• Every Missing Person Deserves a Search and Rescue Team

Hope through the Tunnel: Tammy Hodge’s Story, Part 3

Today we feature Part 3 of Tammy Hodge‘s story, her escape from an abusive husband and her journey to find Hope and a beautiful future.

Want to catch up on the earlier parts first? Here’s:

• Tam’s story Part 1.
• Tam’s story Part 2.

Photo credit: Josh White

By Tammy Hodges

“Are you sure? Are you sure?” That’s all I could say to my mother on the phone. She continued to reassure me the news she received was accurate and direct from a neighbor, who also happened to be a friend. Steve was found dead, on his bed, from a fatal gunshot wound to his heart. He had killed himself the day I left. But even so, in my mind, I thought Steve was crazy enough to fake his death and have me believe I was “safe,” only to come find me when I least expected it, when my guard was down.

I was paranoid. Exhausted. Lost. I felt so afraid. I believed his death was my fault. I was convinced he killed himself just to get at me, to make me feel bad for leaving. One last act of control.

It took several days for me to relax. After a week I finally began thinking clearly again.

On My Own

Then one morning it hit me: I’m on my own! This is it. I have to take care of myself. I went from a little girl, to a married young lady, to a widow, to being a young woman all alone with nothing. I realized I needed a job. I had to take care of myself. I decided I needed to suck it up, be a big girl and move on.

Within three days I was employed as a Purchasing Agent for a small company in Irwindale. Instantly a gentleman there reached out to me. Seriously. That was the last thing I wanted. I wanted nothing to do with the opposite sex: Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t breathe in my general direction. Nothing. Please. Just leave me alone. But he wouldn’t. He was relentless. He was also completely different than anyone I had ever met. There was something about him that was gentle, sincere. He befriended me and reached out. Although reluctant at first, I accepted his friendship with an unspoken caution.

About two weeks later, my new friend invited me to church. Church? Are you serious? Me? In church? Even though I was afraid the building might spontaneously combust upon my entrance, I agreed to go anyways. If nothing else, it would be entertaining, I thought.

He picked me up early that next Sunday morning with his family. I sat in the backseat, a nervous wreck. Sweating, shaking and nauseous. I couldn’t believe I was going to church.

We walked in the doors and immediately people came up to him. He introduced me to his friends as, “the one you’ve been praying for.”

Huh? What does that mean, I wondered. Who are these people and why are they praying for me? I don’t need prayer. And they were all so nice. For me … uncomfortably nice. But, I smiled and played along.

Desperate for Hope

Week after week, my new friend invited me back to church, and I was compelled to go each and every time. I became increasingly intrigued by everyone’s happiness. I wanted what they had. I needed what they had.

Sunday, August 19, 1990. There was a guest speaker at church. His name was Mardo. Mardo had a very strong accent of some kind, not sure. In fact, I could not understand one thing he said. I sat there in the back row, listening intently, trying to read his lips and follow along. I wanted so badly to know what he was talking about. Then, as he was drawing a close, it all became clear. I heard Pastor Mardo for the first time. I heard actual words. I understood him. This is what he spoke:

“Ipp inee ub you wood like to uh-sept Sheesis Klighst indoo yaw hourt, pluhze pay wit me …”

That I heard.That caught my attention. As I bowed my head, my thoughts went back to my childhood. All the fear, the physical abuse, the secret abuse. My thoughts drifted to the teenage girl in the abortion clinic where I would be on two different occasions. Then my thoughts settled on my most recent journey: my husband holding a gun to my head. Me, sneaking off to the Greyhound Bus Station, barely escaping Knoxville, TN.

I shuddered as I thought about hearing that Steve had shot himself.

Then, all those thoughts disappeared. All I could see now was God. Not in a physical sense – but it was … God. Everything else disappeared. All the fear and confusion, gone. And I heard the words: “I brought you here.” I knew right then, without question, God had been with me all along. He had brought me back to Southern California. Brought me to my new job, my new friend and to this church. Everything, for the first time in my life, made sense.

The next thing I heard was, “Amen.”

“I was determined to live.”

I left that building a brand new person that Sunday. Everything in me changed, in an instant. I was determined to live. I wanted to live. For the first time I was looking forward to life. I realized in a powerful way, my life had just been radically saved in every sense of the word. I was saved!

And, I had no idea my husband today, of 17 years, was sitting in the building that day too.

But God did. God knew all along.

Resources:

Do you need help to escape from an abusive situation? Do you have a friend who is in an abusive situtation? Check out these resources:

• The RAVE e-learning site for great resources on what to do, what not to do or how you can help.
• National Coalition Against Domestic Violence
• The Pixel Project

About Tammy: Tammy Hodge is a wife and mother of two, residing in Southern Oregon. She loves to write and is currently working on her first book titled, “The Day I Told My Daughter.” She is passionate about helping women who have lived under the weight of past regrets find forgiveness and freedom to live again. She blogs at www.taminprogress.com and tweets at @inprogress.

Fleeing on a Greyhound Bus: Tammy Hodge’s Story: Part 2

What do you do to escape? Tammy Hodge found herself on a Greyhound bus heading for Southern California, fleeing a hostage hell and abuse by the man she had married at 19.

(Read Part I of Tam’s story here.)

By Tammy Hodge

Staring out the window of a Greyhound Bus going … where? I knew where I was going geographically, but I had no idea where “Tam” was going. But as I replayed the previous 72 hours in my mind, I knew it couldn’t possibly get any worse than it had been.

I feared Steve was following me and I was becoming very paranoid. I was jumpy, fidgety, constantly looking around the bus, a complete nervous wreck with a constant stream of tears. People left me alone for the most part.

Everything made me nervous.

I was traveling during the big Greyhound Bus Strike in the US summer of 1990, so it made the trip even more traumatic. Each station we pulled into we were met with protestors yelling at us, waiting outside the bus doors while some even threw bricks at the bus windows while we sat waiting to exit.

In chaos like that it was extremely difficult for me to keep my eyes peeled out for Steve. Lots of pushing and shoving and wrangling to get us passengers into safety. The environment made it difficult for me to stay aware of my surroundings.

I was so afraid he was following me. It felt like walking down a dark corridor and hearing unwanted footstep coming up quickly behind you.

Continue reading…

You’re gonna end up just like Mom: Tam’s story, Part I

Editor’s note: Today we start a three-part series, introducing you to the lovely Tammy Hodge. She’s a wife, mother of two, blogger, writer and a girl with a story. She has taken the time to write a chapter of her story and has done so from a deep place. I believe it will grip your heart, as it did mine. Be sure to come back and read parts two and three tomorrow and Thursday. You’ll want to know how this chapter of Tammy’s life plays out.

By Tammy Hodge

Truth is, my testimony sucks. It is sad. I endured things a child should never have to endure. If you can think of an abuse, I was a victim of it. But that’s not what I want to talk about.

I always knew, early on, there was a God. I didn’t know it was “GOD”–but I just, knew. The book of Romans speaks to this–that the truth about God is known instinctively–He has put the knowledge in our hearts. Even so, I never searched for more of Him, for a better understanding, or even an introduction. I never set out looking for God. God just met me where I was.

June 3, 1990. I got married to a man named Steve in Knoxville, TN. I was 19 years old and he was 34. I was looking for the father figure I never had. I just wanted someone to protect me. To coddle me. To love me. This man wasn’t to be that person.

I knew, to the bottom of my toes, I shouldn’t have married him. He was volatile, unpredictable and a drinker. But to the outside world, he was a pillar in the community, a very well-known businessman with a stellar reputation. Until one day … he snapped.

I can’t, to this day, even begin to figure out why he came undone. He just did. We were driving home from a golf tournament and he began yelling at me like I was a completely different person. Making accusations and planning my punishment.

Taken hostage

I will not go into details of what happened. But for the next three days, I was his hostage. He didn’t go into work. He unplugged the phones and went on a tirade. During the second day, late in the evening, I was exiting our bedroom after having just had a “beating.” When I opened the door I saw him searching for something in the hall closet. Wanting to be helpful and non-confrontational, I asked if he needed help. He replied, “No, I just found what I was looking for.” It was then he pulled off the shelf, a gun.

I froze. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.

Continue reading…