Keys.
Where are my keys?
Fumbling around in my purse in each nook and cranny for those very-evaporating little things, I rush to my car with a million thoughts running laps in my mind … Call about final dress fitting, talk to mom about wedding invitation envelope stickers, read chapter eleven for research methods, remember to send email for knitting club, crap, I have to get my allergy shots …
The familiar touch of keys brings a smile to my face as I unlock my car, and I hear the comforting purr of my engine coming to life. Ellie Goulding’s voice dances from the speakers as I begin my commute from my Mount Union apartment to my future in-laws’ home for dinner.
Friday, April 29, 2016: In the midst of my 22-credit hour semester, a couple of months before my wedding, and in the middle of internship application time. Just the fact that locating my car keys takes a good ten minutes sheds some light on how busy, overwhelmed, and scatter-brained I was at this time in my life. Hopping on 62 to 77 South, I was trying to sort my thoughts and wrangle in my ever-growing to-do list while I was greatly looking forward to seeing my fiancé (now husband) and family.
… Remember to edit my literature review before its Sunday night deadline, call the dentist to schedule my yearly appointment, clean out my car for next week’s art museum carpool, text sister back about Mother’s Day gift plans, email financial aid to make sure my scholarships went through …
Blue.
Something blue … a coat … moving up on the hill to my right as I took my exit off the highway. I slow down my car and turn down my music; my eyes focusing on the movement behind the tree line on the hill ahead.
A man in a blue coat and matching cap … arguing, with a young child … Then, the man shoves the child.
You know those moments where life gives you a nice little tap on the shoulder? Or sometimes life surprises us with a full-blown reality check? Despite the promise of new spring singing in the sweet evening April air, this reality check left me with chills for weeks and months to come.
Time slowed in liquid steel, icy horror as I watched a young child tumble down the hill and land face first on the paved road less than four feet from the front of my car.
A scream ripped from my throat, and I slammed on my brakes, white knuckles clutching the steering wheel—praying to God that my reflexes were quick enough.
My screeching tires thankfully stopped me two feet in front of an injured child, slowly beginning to stand up. Blue, young eyes, oh-so-innocent eyes, stared at me through my windshield into my own gray-blue irises.
Frozen with fear from what could have almost happened, I stared as he turned and walked to the other side of the intersection where another young child, a girl, stood with a handmade cardboard sign asking for spare change. She grasped his hand gently, and gave it a squeeze, but she did not say a word to him.
Exhaustion draped like a dead weight under their eyes, eyes much too young to ever experience that appearance. Soot-caked, baggy clothes hung from their malnourished frames, and their gazes appeared to be focused on something that was not tangible. On another place.
Regaining my wits, I snap my head back to the man in the blue coat anchored upon the hill behind the tree line. He was watching the children intently, and his right hand was cradling an object in his right coat pocket with fierce devotion.
A sick, toxic feeling enveloped my gut.
Reason continued to filter back into my mind, and I slowly itch my car up to the intersection. The light turns green, and I make my turn knowing all well that I cannot turn my back on this incident. I pull over into the nearest parking lot, and call my fiancé in tears retelling the incident with facts spewing out of me as fast as I can make them, as fast as I want to help those children.
His soothing voice of reason and reassurance calms me down enough to finish the drive to his house. He held me in strong arms as I dialed the Canton Police Department to inform them of the incident.
The police had dispatched officers to the area, and I was informed that my descriptions resembled those of reports of missing children from the foster care system a few months ago. A seven-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl—siblings, who were believed to have been trafficked.
Tears gushed down my blushed cheeks, and I stuttered a weak “thank you” to the operator before the call ended. Missing children … human trafficking … those kinds of things don’t happen here, I naïvely thought.
I live in Ohio, the craziest thing that is ever supposed to happen here is the Browns winning the Super Bowl or someone asking for “soda” instead of “pop”—human trafficking, it always felt like something that happens to thousands of unlucky people in developing countries, not something that happened a few blocks down from Mercy Hospital.
Of course, once I had calmed down and eaten, I realized gravity of the situation. Human trafficking is slavery. Slavery that can happen to anyone anywhere.
I don’t say this to frighten us or to instill fear or distrust in our communities—I say this to be the voice for those who are trafficked. People of all ages, races, sexualities, nationalities, and backgrounds are not immune to this horrendous phenomenon.
And as I found out on Friday, April 29, I am certainly not immune to it.
Yes, I am extraordinarily blessed, grateful, appreciative, and lucky not to be trafficked, but sometimes it is happening to others right under our noses. It appears so subtle that not even a detective would always notice.
My problems, issues, and concerns are so insignificant compared to what those children must have dealt with at the mere ages of seven and nine. To what all victims of human trafficking must experience.
My perception of the happenings around me will never be the same, and that is for the better. If that sick, toxic feeling comes over me again, I will sharpen my senses to what’s happening around me. I try to soak in as many details as I can, and I gaze into someone’s eyes, looking for the same fear I witnessed in those children’s eyes.
Many nights I lay in bed, asking God if they have been rescued and if they are finally living the life they deserve. I know that I may never know what happened, or if my efforts to contact the police were helpful or not. But, I refuse to lose hope. I refuse to lose hope and love for them, and for all human trafficking victims. To me, I will always be on the watch for victims, and I will always try to do something to help, even if it does not help them at all.
Hope and freedom will always be worth fighting for, and now I look for victims in everyday life with much more motivation than I have ever given to looking for my car keys.
