First Night, Early Days

Tonight was the night – 10:13pm my cell phone showed. In just a few minutes, my partner Alison and I were going to meet an “animator” who would take us to meet the “ladies.” Standing by a corner in an infamous “red light district” area in Barbados, my palms were sweating and my heart raced. I looked at Ali every few minutes with a nervous grin. We were at the meeting spot waiting for our guide Olive^[i], slightly terrified, but excited on what the night would unfold. We were told in the prep session for the outreach, not to wear anything too sexy; nothing too revealing; nothing too “extra.” The rationale was that ‘you wouldn’t want to appear to be competition to the women working, nor attract the attention of the men who would be out there,” T-Shirt and jeans were safest. I wasn’t sure what I was most nervous about – the reception or rejection from the women, or being thrown into a pit of what I imagined to be sexual vultures.

Music blared in the air, the flashing lights of cars forced us to squint, impatient horns startled us ever so often. “Why is she taking so long?” – 10:27pm, I saw the silhouette approach us and I knew it was game time. Olive said goodnight in a cold, abrupt way, and motioned to us to follow her. She had already made it absolutely clear earlier in the day when we met that she wasn’t keen on taking us out. She was working on an internationally funded HIV/AIDS project with an NGO – so it really was her boss’ request to oblige us that she was honoring. Olive stated explicitly that she was tired of the “safari trips” and “people only coming to research the women like lab rats, but giving them nothing in return.” Hearing her frustration and anger, I knew that we could not mess this up.

Panties, short pants, lingerie. Boobs, butts, BUSINESS. The brothels were a hive of activity – it was definitely Friday night. Over the years, I’ve come to learn the vibe, the energy of the different nights. Friday nights have a distinct energy. You feel it in the atmosphere.  The smell of cigarette smoke, weed and alcohol choked me. Play cool,  Shamelle. Some of the bars and brothels were small, while some were just tightly packed with bodies – men and women. It was a constant moving and shifting and asking for a pass to navigate the spaces. Some spaces brought me closer to men than I wanted to be, with instances where their bodies grazed mine. Some looked at us, a few even dropped sexual comments. I already felt violated.

In this autoethnography, I reflect on both my childhood and my life’s work as the founder of Jabez House. Twelve years into founding and running a non-profit organization devoted to working with women sex workers, facilitating their transition from sex work via access to alternative economic empowerment opportunities, I seek to examine the structural violence which characterises the lives of street-based sex workers (approximately 80% of my clients) and the agency with which they navigate and negotiate oppressive conditions. In particular, I seek to intervene in feminist debates which view women sex workers as either victims of patriarchal relations of gender in need of saving or as workers in need of rights.  Instead, I  theorise that  that the political economy of gender and the climate of misogyny which normalises sexual violence against girls and women are mutually reinforcing systems of oppression which produce social exclusion and marginality.^[ii]  The gendered political economy creates constraints for mothers experiencing inter-generational poverty in women-headed households. Bailey, Lashley and Barrow have reframed poverty to include social exclusion and marginality.^[iii]  This work has been useful for my own examination of my family history and that of women sex workers. Baldwin’s assertion that misogyny is the climate suggests an everyday and ubiquitous culture of sexual violence and sexual aggression that envelops our society, within homes (incest), schools, workplaces, and churches. #lifeinleggings or #metoo have been closer to our lived experiences than many would want to believe. I cannot count how many times in my life from a pre-teen into adulthood that I have had men make lewd comments about my body, “my bumpa,” how I look, and what they wish they could do to me.

Growing up “hand-me-downs” or secondhand clothes was my reality given how poor we were. I remember a family friend went overseas and brought back a few outfits for me. One was a plaid “peddle-pusher” suit. This outfit was cute, and it was new, and it was all mine. I loved how I felt whenever I wore it. One Saturday, my best friend and I went into Bridgetown. We were twelve or thirteen years old and giggly like most girls that age. Walking through a side alley to Swan Street minding our business, a man, in a loud, salacious voice said to me, “You look so good then. I would barely stick my fangs in dat botcy!!” The look in his eyes, the expression on his face were as if every ounce of sexual energy he could muster, were behind his comment. I had no words. Hurriedly, my friend and I left the alley. From that day on, my feelings towards the outfit changed. It was as though he had soiled something precious in my life. He took something away from me that day.  Yet, it was not just him. It was the constant, perpetual remarks walking through the van stand from school; or walking past a block from a friend’s house; or going to the supermarket. Almost daily for a large part of my life, I too have experienced the sexual harassment and verbal violations, most other women have. Personally, much of this only diminished in some ways when I got a vehicle, so that I had the power to avoid places, should I choose.

The bodies of women, girls, and also boys are targeted for sexual violence. For a long time in my childhood my family had no electricity in our house. There were no other homes without electricity except that of a mature man who lived alone. As a child this was hurtful because it meant no TV, no shows, no fun. Over the years, there were different neighbours who allowed my brothers and I to come by to watch TV. Sometimes it would just be standing on a concrete block to peer through their window; sitting in the gallery (verandah); or by the door. Whatever we were offered, we were grateful. However, I remember one home where we were  always allowed to come in and sit in their small living room. It didn’t seem overly strange because their son was in my class at primary school. I thought they were just nice. Both the mother and father allowed us in. I was 6 years old. I noticed over time though that whenever the father was alone at home, he would always send the boys outside to play, and let me stay inside to watch TV by myself. I used to be very happy for this because I didn’t have to deal with their constant talking and noise while I was trying to watch what little TV I could before having to go home. The father didn’t say many words but he would always be nice, offer me little treats while I there. After many, many months, I was there one day, and after he sent the boys outside to play, he called me to his bedroom. I didn’t think anything about it, so I entered. The exact details of everything are fuzzy in my mind, probably because I don’t want to remember this now 30-year-old event, but he made me take off my pants, and lay on the bed with my legs open, while he took pictures of my private parts. It all happened so fast. After he let me leave the room I ran straight home. Although he didn’t touch me, my 6-year-old self somehow knew that something about what he had done was wrong. I was so scared to tell my mother, but in spite of the fear, I told her that evening as soon as she came home. My mother was livid. She told me to never go back to that house again. Afterwards, she stormed off across the pasture to confront him. I do not know exactly what transpired when she went to him, but the anger I saw on her face, and the anger when she returned home, I knew she had “put him in his place.”

Alison and I stuck out like sore thumbs. You could tell we did not belong. So why are you here? The looks, the stares… Olive began introducing us to the ladies one by one, telling them that we had plans of doing classes and “things” for them, so give us a listening ear. I didn’t have a clue what we had planned to do yet, so I could not figure out why she was telling them this. However, with every promise of classes came a sparkle in their eyes and there was an eagerness that deserved no disappointment. “I only out hey cause I can’t find a job and I ain’t got no certificates nor nothing.  People does don’t want to hire yuh without anything. But this life ain’t nothing for nobody.” This statement echoed throughout the night, and is captured in the research with sex workers in Barbados:

I does be real down and out nuff. But I don’t try to show nobody. I does feel real suicidal and thing, I wouldn’t lie. If I can’t get something for my children, I does be really out of it. I is feel like I can’t get what I want to do, so it don’t make no sense. I is feel real down. I is feel real stressed, yes I does feel real depressed. Even though I may get a boyfriend, I does feel real lonely. But I does feel suicidal now. Out of ten days, I feel suicidal nine days.^[iv]

“Malissa,” sat on a stool by the bar, smoking a cigarette. She had a curious way about her, but appeared to be listening intently to all Olive was saying. After a few minutes, as different women began sharing their contact numbers and asking more questions, she signaled to get my attention, then held me by my hand, leading me outside of the brothel. She wanted to speak to me privately she said, away from everyone. “Alotta people don’t know, but I can’t really read nor write. I had drop outta school at 12 and never really get to learn because of everything that was going on in my house and to me. It was too much on me. But I don’t feel good as a big woman. I does try to hide it so I won’t be shame, but if you could really help me in truth I would appreciate it.” My throat burned as she talked to me. I looked at her in her deep eyes, shrouded by thick, long lashes and my heart sank. By the end of the first night I had met approximately 20 women, with all of them exhibiting excitement about these soon to be “classes.”

I said my goodbyes to Olive and Alison as we headed to our cars. I was overwhelmed. I was angry seeing the men proposition the ladies or grope their bodies. I was perplexed that women were saying they didn’t want to have to sell sex for money, but felt powerless to do anything different.  To me it seemed like like men took advantage of this vulnerability.  I was sad that sorrow and shame filled many of their stories as they spoke to me, but immediately as we ended talking, they had to “put back on a show” because they needed to do “BUSINESS” that night. I have seen that for the women, doing sex work is all performative. As Judith Butler speaks about gender and performativity, with women who engage in sex work, they do sex work.^[v] Similar to mati work, the relationships between sexual acts and sexual identities is not a fixed one.^[vi] The sexual acts are not synonymous with identity, heterosexuality nor homosexuality, but speak to a choice by the women – even if this choice is shaped by an oppressive, gendered, political economy and a climate of misogyny. Examining how individuals use their bodies help us understand how social structures operate, while giving insight into people’s lived realities.^[vii] Despite expectations regarding the earning potential associated with sex work, many women still struggle with poverty. For some, the poverty is often so severe that they face daily challenges to meet basic food, shelter and healthcare needs. As one sex worker from Barbados interviewed by Kyriakakis and Goddard-Durant stated:

So I was like, you know what, swallow my pride. At the end of the day at least my son would have a roof over his head, he would have things to eat, he would be able to have an education. So that was just my motivation to get up and go and do it, cause I don’t want to got to be asking people for things that kind of way. So through the point of me having a child was really the reason why I really went and do it cause probably if I didn’t had a child I wouldn’t care where I live I could of just go by somebody and sleep or whatever.^[viii]

Since founding Jabez House in 2012, the stories of poverty and hard life from the women have been constant. Poverty cuts across the lives of the approximately 700 women from various countries in the English and Spanish-speaking Caribbean who migrate to Barbados to work and who have sought services from Jabez House. I have had moments of extreme anger engaging insensible, ignorant individuals who speak matter-of-factly that the women are just wutless whores who just want easy work so they could dress to kill and ball (show off extravagantly). I have been to too many homes of clients to mention, that seeing their living conditions – conditions under which they were raising children, I had to rethink the image Barbados projects of itself as exceptional, socially progressive and one of the wealthiest and one of the most developed countries in the Eastern Caribbean. With the income per capita listed as one of the highest in the region, yet some families were living in destitution.  Despite what persons may believe about the earnings from sex work, the average, transactional or street-based sex worker in Barbados lives a very hand-to-mouth existence. Most cannot interview for some higher paying, so-called respectable office job or even pink collar labor,^[ix] and often lack vocational skills where they could earn money to get by. The way the economic system is set up, they do not possess the academic certification, the connections and networks, nor even the capital to position themselves to rise above the poverty line. In Rethinking Poverty, the authors posit that measuring income alone is insufficient to investigate issues of poverty. They further note that there are critical “assets” which ultimately impact on the lived experiences of individuals. These are the ability to possess or gain physical / financial assets; human assets; environmental assets – housing and safety; good social networks which can enhance upward social mobility as it’s often tied to education, and healthy family or community networks.^[x]

Poverty is multidimensional. In many cases these women, and poor women generally have intersecting challenges, along with simultaneous absences of these “assets.” As if this is not enough, there are the mutually reinforcing oppressions of a political economy of gender which penalizes mothers who are experiencing inter-generational poverty and the climate of misogyny which “grooms” and introduce girls to sexual violence and sexual economic exchanges, while making it almost impossible for a woman to escape poverty.

1:03AM. There was so much to process. Not long had returned to my car before I began to cry uncontrollably. Every misconception I had of “these women” disappeared. They were real people. They were human. They were women. They were not the flattened, reductionist images of street and brothel-based sex workers which circulate. Although I was an outsider, with my proper English or “bougie” appearance which I had feared may have been a barrier to engagement, the women seemed happy and hopeful.

This gave me hope. This first outreach solidified more than ever to me that these women deserved to receive services they required, and that they should not be further discriminated against because they were engaged in sex work.

These women told Alison and I – complete strangers – private elements of their stories. My heart felt absolutely ripped apart. As I heard their tales of poverty, failed education, dreams denied, trauma and current life experiences, I could not help but think, how easily this could have been my mother or me.  Easily. A fundamental factor that to this day I strongly believe altered the course of my life, was someone taking a chance on me, and investing in my life. However, I could not help but wonder what was different in my mother’s case. Or what could even have happened differently in the lives of these women for them to have another story.

“We Harewoods gine always be poor.” I came along hearing my great grandmother repeat this statement over and over. Maybe it was because of her life experiences. The poverty, neglect and horrors she herself endured as a child were heartbreaking. My grandmother struggled too – she was also an adolescent mother, having my mother at 16, just like my mother had my big brother at 16. My mother shared with me extreme tales of poverty while she was growing up, periods of being homeless, hungry and many other things that I have deliberately chosen not to share. My family was the “poster family” for intergenerational poverty. Intergenerational poverty is the cyclical occurrence in which a child goes from being born in poverty to raising his or her own children in poverty. Research has found that individuals who grow up poor, are more likely to be poor as adults. In instances of intergenerational poverty and persistent social disadvantages, those poor, remain poor. Impoverished living circumstances affected my great grandmother, grandmother and mother’s ability to consistently attend school, and to fully participate when there – dropping out and leaving with no certificates. Furthermore, poor nutrition, bad or unsafe living conditions, access to good social networks (or individuals that can help) also contribute to the individual’s life chances. In the case of these three women in my family (and many of the women we met that first night of outreach, and the hundreds beyond), their life chances were rated in the negative. Studies have shown that poverty exits depend on numerous factors such as educational and employment opportunities, the availability of role models, and child and parent aspirations, as well as a child’s birth order and when in the child’s life poverty occurs.¹⁴ But what happens if social structures or the gendered political economy that is at work, make this almost impossible?

My great grandmother, grandmother and mother have all been “workaholics.” My grandmother, even to this day (at 70 years old) says, “I would rather wuk out, than russ out.” Relaxing or taking a break is like a sin to them. It was not laziness, personal failure nor lack of trying on their part which explains these experiences of economic privation. If you examine the economic marginality and adverse childhood experiences, these women started at the back of the line. Their life histories resonate with those of countless women from the sex worker community. Exploding the myth that sex workers are a group of women set apart from others.  Many women, especially poor and working-class women, have internalized a need to constantly work, and be superwomen often to the point of burnout, with little to no economic rewards to show for it. In Rethinking Poverty the findings pointed to the prevalence of asset poverty and social exclusion among the working poor, unemployed and retirees.[xi] Furthermore, with “certificates” being a major factor in attaining decent paying jobs, these mothers would have already been relegated to menial positions. Doing smocking, cleaning houses and for years picking cotton, were some of the things the Harewood women did to make ends meet. Yet, the ends never seemed to meet. It was exhausting.

My big brother was a terrible asthmatic. It felt like we were at the hospital 5 out of 7 nights of the week. He would have to be nebulized and monitored. My grandmother assisted with childcare when she could. In her late 30s, she also had to work, and had recently gotten a permanent home in a housing scheme at the other end of the country while we lived in St. Philip. My mother would have to take us all with her whenever my brother had to go to the hospital, where we would spend all night. She would then have to wait for the first bus on mornings, at 5AM to get from Bridgetown to St. Philip, to then try to get us ready for school, and then try to get to work. This meant getting to work late many mornings. The number of jobs she was fired from because of this are too numerous to mention. I remember one evening her coming home looking very disheartened and saying to us her boss (a male), said he “can’t deal with no woman with children so working for him because it affecting his business.” This rationale was the same with many of the other jobs she lost.

Although they did not have many tangible resources (physical or financial assets), the women in my family have always looked out for each other the best way they could – even to this day (social assets). For many years, my great grandmother kept my brothers and I on evenings after school until my mother got home. My grandmother also kept us and assisted when and where she could. My mother drilled in our ears, don’t ask nobody for nothing, don’t beg, learn to do without, give thanks for whatever little we got. Wunna gotta learn in life how to cut and to contrive. We lived in the country, so breadfruits, green bananas or other produce that were around helped to feed us. There was always a neighbour to give us things (ever so little – a sweet potato, lil sugar). In the years when we did not have our own water, or even electricity in our house, neighbours allowed my mother to catch water daily from their homes, and one or two even ran extension cords to our house, so that we had “curnt – current.” The village shopkeepers would let her trust things from the shops and she would pay when she could. Thankfully, she also seemed to have had fairly understanding landlords, who would try their best to work with her. This was a huge blessing, which meant the moves in our lifetime were few, and were centred in the same neighbourhood. I do not wish to at all trivialize how much of a struggle my mother had, but in the absence of access to formal socio-economic support systems, these informal structures (these ‘assets’) helped to keep her going, and helped us navigate seasons of hardships. For many of the women I have engaged over the 12 years of working within the sex worker community, sadly, systems of support, formally and informally are often absent – assets are non-existent. Those who are migrants to Barbados, typically have an even more difficult life, than Barbadian sex workers.

Poverty appears to be a critical factor for entry into sex work, along with family instability, sexual abuse and early entry into sexual relationships, which often end in early pregnancy.[xii] As a stigmatized and marginalized population, women sex workers have multiple intersecting vulnerabilities including unequal relations of gender. A context of gender-based intergenerational poverty and gender-based intimate relationship norms appears to underlie and pervasively influence the entire pathway into sex work.[xiii] In addition to the gender-based challenges, women sex workers also experience disadvantages related to their profession as sex workers. Structural and social disadvantages like stigma and discrimination, poverty, violence, unsafe working conditions, and increased vulnerability to HIV and other sexually transmitted infections are all compounded, as a result of being a sex worker.[xiv] Studies have also found that sex workers have increased experiences of homelessness, unemployment, mental illness, and drug use.[xv] Because the female sex worker community is not a homogenous group, I have found that it is necessary to always try to employ a multi-faceted approach in prioritizing the most effective ways to meet the needs of this community. Although there are many similarities in the experiences (particularly traumatic ones among the women), seeing each one as an individual, and prioritizing their voice is vital. I have tried to be mindful of the complex interplay of identities. This has definitely guided interventions designed, as the challenges faced by these women often differ from those faced by other groups of women.

Kamala Kempadoo advances sexual praxis to “capture the way in which sexuality is made visible through behaviours, activities and interactions between people, in relations, and in the ways in which desires are actualized.”[xvi] Among the most common aspects of sexual praxis, sexual economic exchange features. Sexual economic exchanges have been central to many families and communities as a means of ‘getting by.’ Over the years, women have entered the field of sex work for varying reasons. Some have also chosen which avenue in sex work they will operate in – hotel and tourist based, street based, transactional etc.[xvii] Reasons for entering the trade typically centre around the need to secure provision for child and family care, unemployment, underemployment, autonomy etc. Female sex workers generally see sex work being seen as a viable avenue to get by, or in some cases as a strategy for long term socio-economic advancement.[xviii]Sex is a commodity and plays a significant role in the lives of individuals and by extension in economies of countries: be it heavy dependence on earnings generated in sexual economic exchanges whether formally or informally. Classism, racism, sexism, nationality – these all cause disparities in education and employment/ economic opportunities. These systems of oppressions are mutually reinforcing.

After the first night of outreach, and a few others following, I began to rack my brain on how to make these “classes” possible. I sat down, took up my cell phone and wrote a list from my contacts of as many names as I could. I called everyone up asked if they’d be willing to pledge $20 a month. The yes-es were loud, my expectations were high, but the follow through of the majority of pledges were low. For those who actually did follow through, it was a monthly meetup, or drop off the funds, but I didn’t mind, because the purpose was clear: women were human, and had a right to receive services that may alter the course of their lives. The initial funds were used to buy stationery for class, while we occupied a small room at the office of another organization. However, after weeks of engaging with the women, I realized that they needed their own space, and with issues to consider like confidentiality, protecting identities, privacy, safety and other concerns, I managed to find a small space of our own, where operations officially began.

The women were so happy to have a space that was all their own. That physical symbol made them feel seen. In looking back I sometimes wonder how we managed to have so many different classes and sessions happen in that tiny, one room space. But, I hear my mother’s voice, cut and contrive, and be grateful. That small office was just what the organization needed to build up a track record and figure things out. During this time, in-roads and trust were built in the community, and I also positioned the organization to begin to access small grants to assist with the implementation of projects.

It was beautiful seeing Malissa come day after day, being committed to her own personal development. I am proud to see the Malissas who have been able to start their own businesses and or find employment in mainstream sectors. My heart is full every time I see the various women engage positively with their children – their daughters especially. I am humbled with each year that rolls by that another woman can speak of her past life, not in shame, but beaming in pride with her own development.  Those “classes” Olive promised were the origin of Jabez House. Outside of the free vocational and educational opportunities offered, basic needs like food assistance, clothing (in some cases housing), sexual and reproductive health services, psycho-social support and a safe space are accessible. Most importantly, what this women’s organization provided was visibility, community, and an alternate view of the sex worker community that was largely, and often times never presented. Creating avenues to “assets,” have allowed for the many Malissas to have a chance at a life they maybe have always wanted.

Author Biography

Shamelle Rice is the Founder and Director of Jabez House, a charity in Barbados, established to be a safe haven for women sex workers, facilitating their transition process from sex work via access to alternative economic empowerment opportunities. Through the programmes at Jabez House, Rice has reached out to over 700 sex workers since 2012, with many leaving the trade. Shamelle has received numerous awards. Her work with Jabez House has been recognized, nationally, and internationally, with her even receiving an award from the late Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 11 at Buckingham Palace in July 2016.

Notes

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