Archive for prostitution

Our Friend Bunny… Christine McDonald

Posted in #PaulthePoke, Christine "Clarity" McDonald with tags , , , , , on March 28, 2020 by paulthepoke

CeeCee and I were the same age. From time to time, we looked out for each other on the corner of Gladstone Boulevard and Independence Avenue. We would often hang together in between dates, neither of us having a place to call home or a place to go inside, away from the elements. Once, we were arrested in a sting and transported together to the police station.

CeeCee had been in California for years working the streets of L.A., but she bounced back and forth to Kansas City, as that is where her family lived. She hoped that one day her family could look beyond the shame they felt for her prostitution. She longed for reconciliation with them.

At one point, CeeCee and I were in prison together, so we put our names on the list to be cellmates. Soon we were sharing a cell in an old prison that had crank windows we were allowed to open. And there was grass we were allowed to walk on. It was great.

Most other prisons wouldn’t allow you to open windows or walk on the grass. In fact, it was a conduct violation to walk on the grass, and the windows—well, they didn’t open.

One day, when the grass was being cut, the yard crew discovered some baby bunnies. The bunnies were a ray of hope to so many women in prison, many with families or hopes for families, many who had children who had been taken from them, many with families that had, like CeeCee’s, disconnected from them due to their incarceration and the shame it brought on the family. The bunnies somehow filled in the wells of hurt and loneliness. They gave us the connection of something to love and to care for.

CeeCee and I chose to adopt one. We had other girls who worked in the chow hall steal food for us. We cleaned out a metal footlocker and lined it with an old towel and grass we’d picked. At night when we were on lockdown, we would take out our bunny (which we had named simply “Bunny”) and hold it. During the day, we would go out to what we called Blubber Beach. It was where we girls could touch the grass and lie and bake in the sun—still in our prison–gray uniforms, but nevertheless enjoying the grass and the warmth of the sun. When we were there, we would take Bunny out. We stashed him between our breasts to get him out of the housing units. We would lie in the grass and watch Bunny enjoy it with us.

Soon, however, Bunny got bigger and needed to get out of the little locker we had made his home. At first, we had put a rolled–up towel across the floor at the door of the cell to insure that Bunny didn’t make it underneath. But as Bunny got bigger, it grew harder to keep him a secret.

CeeCee and I took turns. We worked different shifts in the prison, so it was easy for us to keep our soft, furry friend to ourselves. But Bunny grew, as all babies do, and we could no longer hide him in our bras to go outdoors. As time went on, we were leaving Bunny out to explore our prison cell more frequently. So the word got out that we had a pet baby rabbit in the state penitentiary, one we had kept and had taken care of for a couple of months. One of the girls told a white shirt, and our housing unit was put on lockdown. The white shirt came to our cell after the unit was locked down…

To be continued…

Contact Information:
Christine C. McDonald
636-487-8986
Christine.CryPurple@gmail.com

“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald

https://crypurplemovie.com/

Bond of the Street… Christine McDonald

Posted in #PaulthePoke, Christine "Clarity" McDonald with tags , , , , on January 3, 2020 by paulthepoke

Men and women who survive life on the streets share a bond like no other. This bond is an unspoken connection, commitment, respect, and love for each other that isn’t the same as the relationships we build outside of the life. The help we once offered each other out on the streets looked very different from what those outside of the life might understand.

The help we offered might look more like a hit of dope if someone was beaten or raped, or a shared sandwich. Or it might even look like a ride in a car or a night’s sleep in a hotel room to shower, if one of us had access to such a rare thing. Sometimes we watched over one another as we slept, particularly if we were sleeping outdoors or in an empty building. Sometimes we shared quarters for the dryers in the laundromat to get warm or dry off our clothes. I could go on. On the streets, we had each others’ backs, because no one else in the world did.

Once I heard an example of a similar type of bond formed among the survivors of a plane crash. Some died in the crash, and it took days for the survivors to be found. These individuals, who didn’t even know each other before this event, shared a bond and a connection that can’t be recreated outside of that event with another person. I think it’s the same for those of us who survived the streets and prostitution.

I was so sick with a cough, fever, sore throat—the works. A car turned the corner. I walked up and saw a friendly face, a “junkie–driver.” A junkie–driver is someone who gets high and has a car. His hustle is giving us rides to get dope. This particular junkie–driver drove a van. I heard voices and looked in the back. I saw a couple of folks from the hood warming up in the back. There were blankets everywhere. I asked if I could have one as I let out a cough.

They said I didn’t look so good, but I told them I was just sick and would be fine. I said, “I got cash for gas and for some dope if I can just ride for a while and rest.” They said sure. I gave them my cash as I climbed in the back. I said I didn’t need any dope; I just wanted to sleep. I curled up in a ball under a blanket and slept.

I don’t know how long they let me sleep back there, but I know it had been daylight when I got in and it was dark when they woke me up. “Ellie, it’s time. You got any more gas money?” I didn’t. They said they had someone
with some money, so they were letting me out and they would be back in an hour or so to check on me…

I share this story, I suppose, to show that we were there for each other. The help we offered one another might not look like help to an outsider looking in, but we took care of each other in the best ways we knew how. Ironically, I was offered more safety and true rest in that van with the junkie–driver than at many of the shelters around.

We recognized the brokenness we each shared, the hopelessness, the disparity, yet we always saw the humanity in one another—something the rest of the world chose not to see in us.

“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald

https://crypurplemovie.com/

Test the Spirits… Christine McDonald

Posted in #PaulthePoke, Christine "Clarity" McDonald with tags , , , , on November 22, 2019 by paulthepoke

Acts 20:29 I know that after my departure fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock.

1 John 4:1 Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God. For many false prophets have gone out into the world.

…Of course, I thought to myself, I’m a working girl. Not even a leader of faith can allow me some safety, some sleep, some warmth, without expecting me to perform at some level. I understood all too well that being a prostitute meant the world around me viewed me differently. I knew people didn’t see us the same as everyone else.

Leaders of faith, law enforcement, case workers—it was all the same. Leaders of the faith would use you just like everyone else. The officers who arrested you would drive you someplace, only to offer to let you go if you’d perform. Sometimes you’d perform for them only to be treated horribly while they laughed and called you names. And they’d still take you to jail.

I suppose, as I consider, I have been bought/paid for by lawyers, judges, teachers, preachers, counselors, construction workers, professional athletes, journalists, cops, fathers, grandfathers uncles, brothers, husbands, boyfriends—I could go on. But one thing is absolute: They, the buyers, were from all walks of life and all economic statuses; the only common denominator they had was me, the prostituted person, an object for their play of privilege and perversions. And on this day a believer, a faith leader, an apparent “helping hand” could not see my pain, my despair.

Even the supposed good guys saw me, the prostituted, as a mere, simple object and somehow less than human and unworthy of anything beyond that identity. Thus the cycle of exploitation continued in place of the help I desperately sought.

“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald

https://crypurplemovie.com/


Do Your Best… Christine McDonald

Posted in #PaulthePoke, Christine "Clarity" McDonald, Culture with tags , , on October 27, 2019 by paulthepoke

From The Same Kind of Human, Seeing the Marginalized and Exploited through Eyes of Grace

God does not demand that every man attain to what is theoretically highest and best. It is better to be a good street sweeper than a bad writer, better to be a good bartender than a bad doctor, and the repentant thief who died with Jesus on Calvary was far more perfect than the holy ones who had Him nailed to the cross. And yet, abstractly speaking, what is more holy than the priesthood and less holy than the state of a criminal? The dying thief had, perhaps, disobeyed the will of God in many things: but in the most important event of his life he listened and obeyed. The Pharisees had kept the law to the letter and had spent their lives in the pursuit of a most scrupulous perfection. But they were so intent upon perfection as an abstraction that when God manifested His will and His perfection in a concrete and definite way they had no choice but to reject it. ―Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island

Christine McDonald was recently featured on Fox 4 News. See the link below for the written article and video report.

“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald

https://crypurplemovie.com/

I Know I Am a Sinner… Christine McDonald

Posted in Christine "Clarity" McDonald with tags , , , , , on October 11, 2019 by paulthepoke

I had heard of a God who was condemning. I knew I was going to burn in Hell for all my wickedness. I was full of shame and guilt. I was homeless. I was addicted. I was a prostitute. I was lost in darkness, wandering in my own wilderness. I was well aware of my brokenness. For real, I had heard this message before.

I felt shameful and dirty, things I already felt on my own. I didn’t need to hear these things from “those people”—the people who had a shower, who had shoes, who had a home. I didn’t need to hear it from those who did their good deed of scooping food on our trays, leaving them feeling a bit better about themselves. While these things were free, they still cost so much for us; the burden of the shame was equal to bags full of gold.

The last thing any of us needed was confirmation of how messed up our lives were. Believe it or not, we were all well aware of our brokenness, our bondage, our chains that gripped so cripplingly tight. I often went many days without food solely because I could not handle the damnation preached so hard and heavy at the soup kitchen mere blocks from where I existed.

The preaching required in order to receive the food that was needed to sustain life, human life, was a binding string. I left feeling judged and condemned. The last thing I wanted was a relationship with a God who was so grand that He judged harshly. Frequently we would leave talking about how painful it was to just get food. Food was successful at physically bringing us in, but the price—judgment—pushed us away in spirit. Many times, the prayers spoken over us were to remove the demons from us, rather than prayers for safety or hope or peace.

“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald

https://crypurplemovie.com/

Sunday Morning Service… Christine McDonald

Posted in #PaulthePoke, Christine "Clarity" McDonald, Culture with tags , , , , on August 10, 2019 by paulthepoke

Extreme Caution!!! Very Adult Content!!!

Every Sunday morning he’d pull up. I always watched for his car. He was always in his suit with gospel music playing and a Bible in the passenger seat. He’d roll down his window and say, “You don’t have any dope on you, right? You know I don’t want that stuff in my car.” Then he’d say, as I opened the door, “No smoking cigarettes, either. No smoking in my car. This is the Lord’s Day.”

I knew the deal. I mean, every Sunday morning there he was. He’d say, “Your money is in the ashtray.” The ashtray was clean, holding only a crisp 20 and a 5 folded up together, and a piece of mint gum every time. That was for afterwards.

He’d sing his praises to the Lord as we drove to his favorite spot, and he’d remind me that there was an extra 10 in the visor if I “swallowed.” We’d park, he’d pray, and then he’d remind me he had to hurry because he had to make it to church. He was a pastor.

He’d always share with me the sermon topic of the day. We would do our business and he’d let me know when I could have my gum. He’d always rush back because he had left the wife at home to wash the car before church, so we had to hurry it up. His car was always spotted with water from the car wash down the street.

Often I’d see him drive past me again later, with his wife and family members in the car, on his way to preach the Word of God. He’d tell me how sinful drugs were, yet he paid for sex as a married man, a preacher in the church. He would remind me of my sins as he dropped me off.

In the eyes of fellow humans, I suppose there wasn’t too great a disparity between his actions and mine. However, if I understand the Bible correctly, God tells us that there is a tremendous disparity. As a man of God, this pastor had a duty not to mislead the children of God.

In Matthew 18, Jesus tells us about the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven, and He is saying that we must become like little children in our faith. Then He says this, in verse 6: “But if you cause one of these little ones who trust in Me to fall into sin, it would be better for you to have a large millstone tied around your neck and be drowned in the depths of the sea.”

These types of spiritual disenfranchisement make it difficult for people to understand God and a loving Christ. For those who experienced things like this in our lives, this “man of God” is just the same as the rest of the men who paid to rape and violate us—the exact same as every other man who degraded us and used us for their gratifications.

“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald

https://crypurplemovie.com/

72 Summer Hours… Christine McDonald

Posted in #PaulthePoke, Christine "Clarity" McDonald, Culture with tags , , , , on June 1, 2019 by paulthepoke

Caution: Very Adult Content

Isaiah 29:20 For the ruthless shall come to nothing and the scoffer cease, and all who watch to do evil shall be cut off…

I read somewhere that an individual’s mental and emotional psyche can be altered and changed forever in as little as 72 hours under the right conditions, such as sleep deprivation, food deprivation, and violence (or the perceived threats of violence) intertwined with random acts of kindness. A lot can happen in 72 hours that can affect an entire lifetime.

It was a scorching hot summer day. I had been standing on the corner through most of the heat of the day. I’d taken my shoes off blocks before as I was walking up and down the Avenue in the hope that someone would pick me up. My hair had been uncombed for days, if not weeks. I’d also been without a bath for a long time. Flies swarmed around me. It was too hot even to think about my hunger. By now I was hoping I might even make it to jail for a shower and some sleep.

Finally, a guy in a fancy new truck pulled up next to me. He was in his mid–to–late thirties, and he had a warm smile. He made eye contact, his teeth were straight and white, and his face was clean–shaven. His clothes were nice, and his hands were clean.

He rolled his window down. “You hot?” he asked. His voice was mild and soft. He held out a bottle of water. The air–conditioning from the truck felt cool. So I got in. I drank the water. He asked what kind of music I liked, and if I was hungry. At the time I was just hot and thirsty. I poured water on some napkins and wiped my face and hands clean as we drove.

He gave me 20 bucks. “That’s for food,” he said, “No strings attached.” Then he handed me a $50 bill and said, “This is for our date.” He said he would find a shady place to park, and noted that he was in a hurry. He said he was between meetings for work, so we drove to the cemetery down the street and parked under a tree.

…The zip ties grew tighter. He grabbed my hair and put strips of tape across my eyes and across my mouth. He threw a blanket or something over me as he used his hand to force me farther down on the floorboard. He spoke calmly, “The more you move, the tighter those zip ties will be. We have a long drive, and I’d hate for you to cut off your circulation before we arrive at our destination.”

My ankles still had multiple zip ties on each. Whenever I moved, I felt them grow tighter. As for my hands, he readjusted the ties so that they were zip tied in front instead of behind my back. “Thanks,” I said. I was crying. I was scared.

“You know,” he said, “you could live through this.” Then there was deafening silence.

…I could hardly get my legs to hold me up. I was shaking uncontrollably from pain and fear. When he returned, I smelled fire, and figured he planned to leave me there to die. Then there was the burn, the searing pain. I smelled my burning flesh. At last it stopped and he left. I had been branded like a piece of cattle.

I was unable to hold my body weight; my legs had given way. I was still taped and strapped to the table. He returned and threw what must have been large buckets of water on me. Then he moved me and locked me up again. Somehow, I found sleep. When I woke my eyes were still taped shut, and my clothes were dry.

He proceeded to zip tie my legs and carry me out. I had no idea what he would do next. He put me in the truck on the floorboard of the passenger side, covering me with a blanket. We drove. “Are you scared?” he asked. I nodded my head yes. Then he asked me if I wanted to die. By now I was sure that days had passed since the beginning of this whole ordeal. I hurt so much, and I was scared.

“It’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’m going to let you live. But I know how to find you.” He told me he had been watching me for weeks, and he knew no one would come looking for me. He even told me about some of the cars I had been in and some of the corners I had stood on. He even knew the last day I had changed clothes. I was terrified.

We drove on and on. When we stopped, he said he was going to untape me and let me out, but he would find me and kill me if I said anything to anyone.

By the time he removed all the tape, it was dark. We were in that old, empty, closed cemetery where the nightmare had started, blocks from anyone. He shoved me out of the truck. My legs were shaking from pain, and my face was raw from the rip of the tape. I felt air on my skin once again after days with the tape across my eyes and mouth. I began wiping the oozy, caked–on crust from my eyelashes, squinting at the brightness of the lights. Then I saw he had no license plate on the back of the truck.

I began walking back to the Avenue, my hands in the pockets of the sweat pants he had put on me. I realized then that he had put the money he had given me at the beginning of this ordeal in the pockets: the $50 and $20 bills.

I walked past an open gas station and grabbed some food, a soda, and some ibuprofen. I called my dope dealer to pick me up and give me a ride the rest of the way. Getting high would ease the pain, remove the fear, and once again be the coping mechanism that my life seemed to dangle by.

I had survived another nightmare. I had endured another buyer of sex who sought a victim to act out his fetishes with. I had been reduced to an object without emotions or feelings once again. I had been dehumanized, objectified, and tortured for another person’s pleasures.

But remember: He had looked like one of the good guys.

“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald

https://crypurplemovie.com/

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