Copyright © 2014 Alice Jay

All rights reserved by the author. No one part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author.

Cover design: Creativelogoart

ISBN: 978-1-937400-48-4

ISBN: 978-1-937400-49-1     ebook

Printed in the United States of America

Published by Manifold Grace Publishing House, LLC

Southfield, Michigan 48033

www.manifoldgracepublishinghouse.com

Dedications

This book is dedicated to people who can help those who were trafficked recover, to educate and enlighten those sheltered from the realities of the life.

To those who are safe and sound in the comfort of their homes, grateful for NOT having this experience.

To survivors so they will not lose the will to live. We strengthen survivors by providing tools.

To professionals/sheltered/survivors/agnostics; those too educated to believe. To survivors who often don’t know any other way of life. Finally, to those who refuse to believe in God, I would have had no way out – but God.

Acknowledgments

Thank you! To everyone I have ever known simply because knowing you - made me. The woman I am today is full of strength and courage hoping for a better future.

Thanks to God for sustaining me with His grace and mercy.

Thanks to all my family and friends.

Special thanks to: Edward Johnson (my brother) and Darlynn Johnson (not related) for your contributions. You made the editing and publishing possible.

Thank you Alison Bedker, Darlene Dickson. If it had not been for your belief in me, this book would still be sitting on the shelf.

Thanks to Saurice Grady. Raynad Smith, Jessica Mays, April Wright, Rhonda Dhummas, and Irene Garza for all your love and support. I could not have made a comeback without you!

Last, but not least, thanks to the House of Metamorphosis, the San Diego Rescue Mission and Detroit World Outreach.

Table of Contents

Foreword

I have been blessed to know Alice Johnson for the past 11 years. We are family by marriage, but I had only heard stories of her for years before we met. The stories were not pretty, they had no happy endings. Our family has always been acutely aware of the struggles and trauma that she suffered. I recall one story that had me feeling particularly intimidated, but despite the family dysfunction she remains fiercely protective of her family. So when a girl showed up one day where Alice was hanging out with a few of her brothers and began playing one against the other, causing a fight, Alice chased her off down the street… literally… with a barbell. Like I said, intimidating.

I would hear stories laced with sadness of when Alice tried to come back home and her sister opened her home to her. Alice could not handle the four walls, rules, schools. She had been alone for so long, finally seeking solace in an environment she thought would be stable. Suffice it to say, Alice did not find peace or solace. The love was there, but sometimes that is not enough. Especially when one is trying to heal from such trauma.

When we finally met I was surprised at how easily she laughed and how deeply she loved. After hearing pieces of her story throughout the years, I imagined a hard and scarred individual; that was not Alice. Through it all, Alice has been honest and open about her story. She was the first person I ever heard use the term Human Trafficking. Imagine the shock of hearing of such a horrible thing from one of your own family, knowing they experienced it. That was my experience with Alice. She sat in her sister’s living room talking to me, her “new niece,” telling me of being held at gun point and raped. She spoke in Japanese and told us of being trafficked to Hawaii.

It is hard to visualize Alice so broken and weak, but she will paint the picture for you. I remember the night she left us. We were crying. She was screaming that she needed us to help her. We were as powerless as she was. It is painful to tell someone you care about, that you cannot help them anymore until they help themselves. Alice continued on her journey. We waited. Words can only begin to express the pride I feel to see her shine today. She has opened her heart up to the world, leaving her darkest secrets out for scrutiny.

Since the first time I met her, she made it clear, her goal was to allow herself to heal enough to help others who have been victims of Human Trafficking. Now, not only is she helping others, she is working to prevent more people from experiencing the same trauma. She has spoken in front of State Representatives of Michigan to push for changes in the law that will not allow perpetrators to get off the hook. She has spoken in front of several groups of women, men and young people to educate them regarding the issue of Human Trafficking. Now she is going further to organize fundraisers for people in need. She began this endeavor with many obstacles from the start.

As a victim of Human Trafficking she was robbed of an education most Americans take for granted. She started her mission as a single mother which is a challenge in and of itself. Nothing, not trauma, lack of education, poverty or raising a family, has held Alice back. What a glorious thing it is to see this change come to fruition in our generation. Human Trafficking has been a horrendous blight on our world for far too long! Join me in lifting up this voice that will help the movement end this tragedy!

In her story, Alice speaks for millions of women and children throughout the course of our history who have been robbed of a voice to speak; wrecked and left for dead. This book will educate our world so we can move forward in this fight to end Human Trafficking. The first step is acknowledging the problem, then learning about it and finally, taking a stand to end it.

Jessica Mays

December 14, 2014

Introduction

This is a true story based on my life experience. It is not just another survivor’s story; it is the story of a journey to spiritual growth. After being abducted as a child and exploited through the underground world of human trafficking, I wanted to know why God loved all the children in the world but me. This is a testimony about a girl with hopes and dreams; who loved the Lord and loved life. Then one day her hopes and dreams were gone. She was lost and turned out. Dead to the world - will she ever recover? Is there a way out?

This is the cold hard reality of human trafficking. It is not a book about statistical theory; it is the raw uncut survival story of a child of the night. It is the raw reality of my experiences overcoming the world of human trafficking. Some of the language is raw too. I changed most of it because I no longer speak that way; it was, however, the language of my world.

Anyone who reads this book will benefit and be changed forever. There are 20 years of personal research in this book. What you know about this way of life is simply a myth. Layers and layers of a life style that has been misinterpreted for centuries will be unveiled. We will lay the myths to rest for this book is based on my life experience.

This is my gift to the world and I hope you will be pleased. The names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. This is my truth; my light. I invite the professionals, parents, young adults, atheists and agnostics to come walk and talk awhile with me as I reveal the darkest moments of my life.

May your eyes be opened that you receive comfort in trouble and peace through your storms!

~ One ~

Where I Come From

I am the youngest girl of 12 children and I grew up in a very poor home; every man for himself. There was always a lot of chaos, fighting and arguing. Neglect, incest and abuse was the norm in that household. I adjusted to my surroundings as all my sisters and brothers did. Being an introvert who learned how to hide very well and how to fight by the age of five, never stopped me from dreaming or playing and having fun with my brothers. I loved dancing and writing songs. I liked climbing trees and going to church. I was a good student who loved school and loved to learn. Always ahead of my class, I was better at everything than anyone I knew.

School and church were kind of an escape from the chaos in my house. I really liked the snacks and lunches best of all. I remember always trying to make the best of my surroundings, and trying to stay low on the radar not to cause my mother any trouble.

The first time I remember being abused was when my father threw me from the attic window and the next door neighbor lady caught me. My mother said it was because I was hiding in the attic crying. She said when she found me and asked me why, I said to her that I was talking to my grandfather and he said something bad was going to happen to me. When she told my father, he called me a witch and threw me out of the window. As I look back now I realize that I was blessed and highly favored. I, like my grandfather - a Blackfoot Indian spiritual leader, was a very spiritual person.

Once my mother and father got divorced, things got worse. It was normal for me to go without things like hot water or food. I rarely got new clothes and if I did, they were hand-me-downs. Kids were cruel and called me names. At first I tried to pay them no mind and just be the best I could be. Once the divorce was final, my mom got a new boyfriend.

I always felt sorry for the abuse my mother and brothers received from him. I also envied my brothers; they were her favorites. It was very obvious that my mom and her boyfriend liked them better than me, just because they were boys. He worked them like mules. He had them chop down a one hundred year old oak tree. My fourteen-year-old brother got the worst of it! He was white with blonde hair and blue eyes. The other boys were seven, five and four years old. He worked them day in and day out, chopping down trees and, stuff like that. My mother paid no attention when he would strip us naked and beat us with his belt buckle. If one got it, we all got it. He didn’t beat me as bad as the boys – my dad would have killed him. After his business started rolling, he was gone.

Around this time I became anorexic. My mother acted like it was a personal attack against her. She became violent, especially towards me. She would often scream at me saying, “You look just like your father!” Other times she would line us up on the couch, screaming about how much she hated us. She usually stared directly at me. I would have preferred her to do the usual banging my head into the wall, than to hear her screaming those words while jumping up and down like a crazy maniac.

When my mother got a new boyfriend, you could tell because she was happy. She would get all dressed up to go out for an evening. I always thought my mother was so beautiful. I wished that I looked like her instead of my father. No one dared question my mother. She was rarely happy as it was, so no one dared say anything to break her spirit.

When I was about eight I remember my mother seemed a little uneasy and desperate. She told me her friend was coming to take me shopping for some new shoes. I didn’t understand why she picked me over my brothers. She dressed me up in my Sunday best, then sent me off with some stranger she’d met at the local pool hall. He did take me shopping at Kmart and he bought me some Hush Puppy shoes. We went back to his apartment. This was a rundown building where hookers and junkies hung out. The building stood across the street from the projects. It was the kind of building that you have to share the bathroom with everyone in the building.

He sat me on his lap and put my new shoes on my feet. Then he started rubbing my upper thigh. He went inside my panties molesting me. I started crying. He kept saying my name. He told me I was going to be his little whore.

He had been drinking beer the whole time. When he got up to use the bathroom in the sink, I shot out the door as fast as I could. I could hear him calling me. When I looked back, there was a man who had to be in his forties, holding himself, laughing loudly. I ran home about ten blocks. By the time I made it home, I was faint and frantic. I told my mother what happened and she became enraged.

She started crying and screaming, “You liar, you lying little whore! He loves me, not you!” She began banging my head into the wall, screaming how she hated me. Then she threw me in the closet and left me there for hours in the dark. I could not and would not speak of it to anyone because I didn’t want to offend my mother, even though I didn’t know what whore meant. I just felt she hated me, so I began to hate her. She would never regain my trust or respect. I began to hate and resent her for being my mother. I told her I wish I had a black mother, she laughed.

We moved out of the old neighborhood into a predominantly white neighborhood on the northeast side of town. There was a mixed couple next door that my mother knew from my father. He would be the next man to molest me. I remember my mother leaving me with him. He told me to sit on the floor then sat across from me. He started telling me he had a daughter named Alice, too. He kept asking me if I understood. I began to cry. He told me not to cry, saying he wouldn’t hurt me, and to think about ice cream. That is all I can remember. I was still eight years old. Even at that young age I knew I was being disrespected. When he started touching me, I mentally and emotionally went somewhere else, to escape any physical pain that I might have to feel. They call it disassociation, something I mastered at a very young age. It was a gift to me. I knew I couldn’t tell my mother. I didn’t want another episode like the last one.

I went to school in the neighborhood that fall. I always thought that I was an average kid, but at this school no one would play with me. Even the Mexican boy turned to me and said, “I don’t want to play with you, nigger.” That was the first time I experienced prejudice and discrimination. Later on that day, the woman next door broke the news that they were moving. The KKK came to our house saying. “Nigger lovers must go!” My mother badmouthed them saying: “My son is a black panther and I’ll have your white asses fucked up.” The next morning there was a small cross burning on our front lawn. My mother decided it was best that we move back to the southwest side of town, since there was no man around.

We didn’t stay there long before we moved again to a hotel where my mother’s ex-boyfriend lived, the one who urinated in the sink and molested me. The place was run down and raggedy. There were drunks and hookers in and out all day long. They all thought my brothers and me were so cute. The hobos would give us change; the hookers gave us dollars and let my brothers feel on their breasts. The pimps gave us weed and toys or candy. We learned a lot about hustling from them. Sometimes they would stop us and give us lectures on surviving in the world. Other times we would just listen to the pimps while they got their shoes shined at the local barbershop. Soon we moved again, deep on the west side. This is where I would go to the fourth and fifth grade.

That spring I went to Memphis with my father’s sister, Aunt Stella. She was so strong and beautiful, all three hundred pounds of her. She cooked me cobbler and greens. Aunt Stella just loved me to death. I wished I never had to leave.

By now I was in the rebellious stage. I got caught smoking cigarettes and was disciplined. So I ran away to my cousin’s house where he molested me. I told my Aunt and she took me back home to Michigan. I arrived back home that summer. My mother introduced her new boyfriend to me as her husband. They got married about a week after I got back. She wanted me to call him daddy. I hated her for that. She had just met him three months earlier.

I hated her most for giving him our food stamp money for alcohol. I hated not having clean clothes or hot water, roaches everywhere, and mice jumping out of my cereal box. I hated him for beating my mother, my brothers, and me like we stole something when we had done absolutely nothing wrong. I hated going to church on Sunday morning just to be beaten on Sunday evening. He tried to molest my best friend one day, when she came to my house to visit me. I couldn’t play with her anymore. I hated being in the house because of all the violence.