I first met Wendy in a cold, dank Juvenile Justice Center jail cell. In this eight-by-eight cubical stood a skinny, plain-looking, white girl. A sixteen-year-old imprisoned to her profession as well as her addiction. Wendy was a prostitute addicted to crack and infected with HIV. While she told me her life story, I examined her rap sheet.
The document measured nine inches, exactly the length of her platinum blond hair. As her eyes flickered, I observed her Leonardo da Vinci smiles fade in and out of her face. But she was as tough as the thick enamel covering them. Her eyes revealed the sadness of a lost youth, blue teenage eyes that had seen the dark side. As I continued studying her criminal history, I saw one of her many aliases was Turnpike. I thought, sometimes there is harm in asking.
At twelve, my stepdad started to sexually abuse me. I was thirteen when my mom found out. She blamed me. My mother believed her and kicked me out of the house. In exchange for food, shelter, drugs and money, I gave them sexual companionship. I did this for about a year. Then a mean SOB trucker abandoned me at 79 th and Biscayne, right in the heart of the red-light district. Make your living on the streets.
I opened up shop, right there in the street. Then a pimp took me under his wing. He turned me on to crack. He bought me a sequin-covered mini-skirt, high-heels that lifted my small body six inches off the ground, and lots of makeup to paint my face. My pimp took me to the health department for treatment. I just wanted to get back on the street as quickly as possible. I needed my crack, so I agreed to the test.
I did not cry. All I could think about was getting another hit. They told me to always use condoms. Social services, with the backing of the juvenile court judge, sent Wendy to a specialized AIDS foster home in Jacksonville. They hoped the distance would keep her off the streets of Miami.
