Prework Ramble

What if someone mistakes you for a Prostitute?

This possibility occurred to me in a hushed, self conscious tone, shortly after I’d been hired. Oh my god. Some one might think that I, Ivy Donegal, respectable citizen, am a Whore…the inhumanity! I was aware of my brain’s bigoted histrionics and tried to hush them, though the question remained, nagging, persistent.

I was reminded of a time when a similar question had troubled me, deeply: what if someone mistook me for a Homosexual? This was the problem, you see, of consorting with gays. I had posed it to a friend describing an outing to a gay bar. My tone was self-righteous and vicariously indignant: “But what if you were hit on by a Lesbian?”

She responded, slowly, as if I were a particularly stupid redneck, which indeed I was: “I would say that, sorry, I’m not interested.”

This conversation was, for me, a memorable one, marking the moment when I realized that homophobia was, outside of my God-fearing, incestuous town, nothing to be bragged about. I hushed up, which is an important first step towards discovery, learning, and left wing zealotry.

The inevitable happened about two weeks into my employment, working almost exclusively with sex trade workers in the poorest part of a very rich town. I was running to the nearby market to purchase bread, two hours before our drop-in opened, and a young man on the sidewalk, watching my exit, emitted a coughed but unmistakable: “Whore.”

My first reaction was of the man’s poor timing…yes, this building housed sex trade workers, but not for another two hours, stupid. Get your bigotry straight. Asshole.

I suppose my lack of personal offense was because I had already discovered what few others do: that sex trade workers don’t look or act remarkably different from any other women (except possibly when they’re soliciting customers, and even then not by much). The only identifiable feature in the women using our drop-in was that they looked poor. All ages, all races, though a great number of aboriginal women formed our ranks, and several dying of various diseases, but mostly cancer or AIDS. Thinner than the regular populace, mostly due to malnutrition. Short skirts and high boots were indeed popular, but the high heels eyed suspiciously; most women need footwear that they can stand on all night and run in, quickly, should their date turn ugly.

The first time I was actively solicited, I was wearing sneakers and old, ripped jeans. The zipper on my jacket was broken, but I loved it, because it was large and I was small and it made me feel tough as I walked down the deserted streets of Chinatown towards my bus stop. I looked rough.

The driver of the speeding car was visibly excited to have spotted me, and I felt a pang of guilt. I didn’t respond, because I didn’t want to come very close to the doors of his vehicle, so I simply looked busy and walked away.

He drove off a few seconds later, emitting another round of the familiar adage: “Whore.”