The Defeated Prostitute I Didn't Talk To

Across the street, two prostitutes were talking to eachother. To my left were three guys chilling on the curb, clearly drunk and still drinking. To my right was another prostitute. Looking back, I guess it was pretty dangerous for a gringo like myself to be all alone with my nice clothes and bookbag on this poorly lit street at 11:00 at night, waiting for the last bus because I didn't realize I had just mised it. I suppose I should have listened to my mama tica.

I was travelling back to San Jose after visiting my family from last year. My mama tica said I should take a taxi when I get off the 2nd bus in San Jose. The late buses are unpredictable. Also, it's really dangerous, especially in the part of downtown San Jose where my bus stop is. Yeah well, I didn't feel like paying the extra money for a taxi, so I walked the half a mile to the bus stop (like I said before, unaware that the last bus had already come). I can honestly say I've never seen so many prostitutes in my life--and the occassional transvestite. I've definitely never had that many prostitues yell at me, stroke my shoulders as they walked by, talk all sorts of vulgar to me, telling me what they could do for such and such a price. My mama tica flipped out when she found out that I had been in that part of town at night and had waited at the bus stop for 30 minutes alone before finally acquiescing to the taxi.

In retrospect, she was right and I should have been afraid. It was clearly dangerous, especially for a rich white boy. However, at the time, the whole scene depressed me too much for me to be afraid. I remember this one girl. She was on the street corner right near where I was waiting. With her heavy makeup and long hair, she was wearing black boots, a black thong, and a black bra--I'm not making this up. But unlike the other girls (and dudes...) I saw that night, she didn't say anything as I walked by; she didn't yell anything as I stood mere steps away from her; she didn't show off her body like the other girls, despite her lack of clothing. Rather, her shoulders bent in, as if she was trying to hide, and she never once looked up from her feet, so I never got to see her face. I'd give her maybe 15 years of age. I remember thinking how defeated she looked.

What would Jesus have done if he had been walking down those streets and seen those same prostitutes? I have no clue. All I know, is that I felt so hopeless. Who was doing something about this?! Where do we even begin to change all this?

Here in Costa Rica, there's a ministry called Renacer, and it's doing something about this. In a way, this ministry catches girls before they get to points like prostitution. Funcioning as a children's home, girls from ages 11-18 come and live here. Every girl is coming out of an addiction of some sort, so heavy therapy occurs. Many girls go through violent withdrawals, and most need therapy for some sort of crime commited against them in life--mostly sexual and physical abuse. Most of these girls haven't been in school in years. When they come to Renacer, they find a home, a family, and God.

Hugging one of the girls before I left, I couldn't help but notice the scars on top of scars of past ripped flesh on her forearms. I found out that Renacer found this girl in jail, at 15 years old, for having almost beaten someone to death. With an intense history of sexual abuse, this girl first came to Renacer after living on the streets and having heavy drug addictions. But the other day as I watched her sing in the choir for worship, I didn't see any of that. Yes, you can see layers of scars all over her arms, but you can't see the same defeat and brokenness she used to carry. Instead, you see a girl with such a big smile, you wonder how she can manage to sing. Instead, you see a girl that reads Bible verses to other illiterate girls during the bi-weekly chapel services. Instead, you see a girl full of joy, constantly serving; because someone has put her first in life, has believed in her, has loved her like she deserves to be loved. She's almost 18 now, and still has a few more years before she'll finish high school, but she'll finish, and then she'll go on to college. "Who knows, maybe I'll work with girls like me one day," she says.

And so I remind myself: one person at a time.

Hope; [or] As I Can't Remember His Name, I Think of Him as Sohrab From the Kite Runner

The first thing I saw was the patchy, tin houses sloppily packed one on top of another. Scraps of cars and sheets of metal tacked together in fruitless hopes of deterring the downpour of this rainy season. One house has been sinking slowly down the bank into the thick, muddy river. And that got me down.

I saw hundreds and hundreds of children, and children holding more children. Way too many children to fit in these houses, and way too many children that call this place home. Many children weren't wearing shoes, many without shirts, and way too many children on the streets without parents. And that got me down.

I saw a church and a school, both looking more like a rundown shed you'd find in the woods in the US. The school's overcrowded, and there aren't enough supplies nor teachers, making the ratio on the day I helped out 1 pair of scissors and 1 teacher for 70+ kids. The church is sick. It's pastor allows no children to come in and no women to speak during services. They stand in the back and fan their men, reclining in fold-up chairs and listening to sexist, ageist, and nationalist sermons. There's not just poverty here, but corruption. And that got me down.

I saw the three missionaries, two ticos and one nica. I saw them hugging mothers, holding babies, laughing with fathers, playing with children, giving out sandwiches, leading Bible studies, fighting, fighting, fighting. Oh, but one had to sleep here last night because she didn't have money for the 75 cent bus ride home yesterday. With no money coming in or out, they're falling into the same lives of the people they're trying to help. But is there any other way? It's only their hope and their love that keeps them afloat and lets them smile as they don't tell me that their monthly income is $100. I almost spent that much on some shoes yesterday. And that got me down.

I saw a little boy. He walks past some other boys playing soccer, and he's too young. In this place are many children but little childhood. Someone should be holding his hand, but his arms are full with his two younger siblings. He wears the same outfit I've only always seen him wear. I saw him lead his siblings to the cement slab where, under the blazing sun, the children sit watching skits and hearing stories about a man who feeds and heals people; and while distractedly watching a bony dog violently lap up the sewage water running between the houses, I felt myself sinking so low, getting so down.

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In a world where change is an abstraction and not a reality, so much can tear us down, and if we're not careful, we'll find ourselves sliding and sinking and being sucked down the river's bank into that thick, muddy trap. We can not let that happen. That's not the way for change. Change can be concrete. The way for change begins with hope. The way for change begins with love. And most often, these things are found in the ordinary, with change sneaking in, slowly leaking in not in the extraordinary, but in the ordinary, not in the conspicuous, but in the common.

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I didn't see him turn around and notice me sitting there behind him. I didn't see him sit his siblings down against the fence beside us and scoot towards me. I wasn't seeing anything but that stupid dog over there, but I felt him. I felt him slide into my lap, I felt his breathing as he leaned against my chest, and I felt him change me as I looked down and really saw him. I felt that simple, toothless grin lift me up and pull me out. Sitting there together, I don't remember what Bible story was preached, or how long it lasted; I don't remember that boy's name, or what his siblings were doing in that moment. I remember the unspoken between us, uniting everything about us that was still human, and making me believe again.