Archive for prostitution

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/

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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/

A Merry Christmas on the Street

Posted in Christine "Clarity" McDonald, Culture with tags , , , , on December 14, 2018 by paulthepoke

Christine works for legislative change in Missouri metropolitans.

Caution, adult content.

It was Christmas morning in the late ’90s. I had showered on Christmas Eve, at a house that had no electricity and no heat, but had running water. I had grabbed a fresh change of clothes at the local thrift store on Truman Road in Kansas City. I changed outside in the parking lot between the dumpsters, tossing the dirty clothes I had worn for the last four, maybe five, days.

There were always folks willing to buy sex on Christmas. Men “treating themselves to a Christmas gift.” Men thinking that if they buy sex on Christmas they are giving a “gift” to the prostituted. Such men dared not divulge their perversities to those they were in a relationship with or married to. Instead, they “gifted” their twisted sexual desires or fetishes as a selfish gift to themselves and supposedly a generous gift to their prostitute of choice. They paid a prostitute on Christmas to indulge their perversion.

I saw the bright red car heading my way. I made it to the corner and turned to walk up the block when he turned again. As I approached the street that ran behind Apple Market, he sat there waiting in his shiny sports car. He backed up slowly, rolled down the passenger window and smiled. “Get in,” he said.

As I stepped into the car, he reached his arm toward the back seat. I paused hesitantly with the car door still open, watching intently to see what he was reaching for before getting completely in the car. He pulled out a single rose. I closed the door as he handed it to me. I looked at him and back at the rose and said, “Thanks.” We drove off.

He asked if I was hungry, and I said, “Yes.” He said, “Let’s get you some food first, okay?” I said, “Sure.” We drove to a few places close by, but they were closed.

I smelled the rose and touched the petals. They were soft and beautiful against the stark winter landscape. Looking at the rose, he said, “The 7–11 where I got that is open. Shall we just go there to get you some food?” I agreed. I made nachos, piling on as much chili and cheese as the paper container would hold. I grabbed a bottle of OJ and a lighter and met him at the counter.

He asked if I needed cigarettes, and I said, “No, I don’t smoke.” He glanced at the lighter I was sliding in my jeans pocket, but he did not probe further and I did not offer an explanation of my addiction. We got back in the car and I thanked him. He encouraged me to go ahead and eat. He continued driving around the area where he had picked me up.

Then he said, “I saw you out last night. You’ve changed clothes since then, and you look nice.” I thanked him while thinking to myself, small talk? Really? But at least he was kind. As I finished up my food, I thanked him for letting me eat first.

“Okay, now let’s talk business,” I said. He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a crisp $100 bill. He said, “We’re both alone on Christmas, but I have a home to go to, a warm place.” He nodded toward the hundred dollar bill in my hand. “That’s yours. Can I give you a lift to a hotel so you can have a warm place?”

The curious driver spoke again. “Well, why don’t you tell me where you would like me to drop you off so you won’t have to walk any more than you have to? It’s the least I can do. It’s a holiday, and all. I know it’s not much, but I really don’t want to take you to a dope house or anything like that, if you don’t mind.”

That’s when I realized he was giving me the money expecting nothing in return. Perplexed, I asked, “So you’re just giving me a hundred bucks and going about your business?” He smiled at me and said, “Yes, I am.” I clarified, “You don’t want anything. For real?” He said, “No I don’t. I guess you don’t get that much, huh?”

I just sat there trying to process it and finally answered, “No. No I do not.”

On this day, however, this prostituted woman would not have to have a man put his hands on her. This moment was like a miracle: no one touching me, no one pawing me.

A day of, what felt to me at that moment, freedom. A state of being that rarely found its place on my journey of life. On that blustery winter day, that gift of freedom, the connection to me as a human and not an object, was the best Christmas gift I had ever received, maybe in my entire lifetime.

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

Read more at…

https://www.amazon.com/Same-Kind-Human-Marginalized-Exploited/dp/154080044X

https://www.amazon.com/Cry-Purple-Christine-McDonald/dp/1482053616

Christine McDonald & Bishop Michael Curry

Posted in Christine "Clarity" McDonald, Culture with tags , , , on November 22, 2018 by paulthepoke

The Right Reverend Michael Curry, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of North Carolina, interviews Christine McDonald, author of Cry Purple (crypurple.com) and an advocate for survivors of sex trafficking, about what we can do to combat trafficking.

Filming for Christine’s autobiographical movie “Cry Purple” started October 2018. Coming soon to a theater near you.

Matthew 1:5-6, 16 and Salmon the father of Boaz by Rahab, and Boaz the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of David the king… of whom Jesus was born, who is called Christ.

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

Read more at…

https://www.amazon.com/Cry-Purple-Christine-McDonald/dp/1482053616

The Age Stigma

Posted in Christine "Clarity" McDonald, Culture, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on October 26, 2018 by paulthepoke

Psalm 116:5 Gracious is the LORD, and righteous; our God is merciful.

Psalm 86:15 But You, O Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in loving devotion and truth.

Featuring Christine Clarity McDonald

Christine McDonald

Finally, let’s touch on the way age factors into people’s categorizations of “worthy versus unworthy victims.” They say the average prostituted person’s life span in the life of prostitution is seven years. If they make it the full seven years, they often end up dead from drug overdose, suicide, or murder. Only a small percent of these individuals will find a way out.

It is also said that the average age of entry into prostitution is around 13. Think about it. If a 13–year–old becomes a prostituted individual and survives seven years, they would only be 20 years old. We, as a society, see a youth in this awful life as a victim, but once they make it to 18, we expect them to somehow break the mental, emotional, and traumatic chains of prostitution and walk away. Once an individual crosses the invisible line of “adulthood,” we no longer view them as victims but as criminals. All compassion or awareness of the horrors they endure seems to disappear at that magical age of 18. Yet it is so much more complicated than that.

child abuse

As I see it, the longer they are in it, the more trauma they have endured and the deeper the hurt. Yet because they didn’t recover at age 15, we say “screw them” when they are 19, or 22, or 36, or older and trying to find a way out. That is not okay. Think about it: Does God place an age limit on His grace in our lives? No, He does not. However, this is not how the majority of our society sees it.

Why is that? Who are we, as a society, as people of faith, and as service providers to determine what age someone is recoverable to begin their healing process? If God sustained them three days, three years, or 33 years in a horrific life of commercial sexual exploitation, then perhaps we should embrace God’s love for them and reflect that love as His children to His children.

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

Read more at…

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