one

I sat across from her in the tidy but slightly worn living room. The sea-green carpet, the low blue couch with the flat, pleated pillows, the family photo-turned-oil-painting over the upright piano. It was a quiet, cool evening. Trees whispered to each other outside.


Why was I there? I don't remember now. Some business about our apartment. I don't remember how it came up either, only that in her soft, dry voice Barbara began to tell me about Steven, her handyman. He had been brought to the U.S. from Thailand as a child. He was told he would get a job in a fancy hotel but was kept as a prisoner instead, cleaning office buildings twelve hours a day and locked in a room with a dozen other kids the rest of the time.


He never talked much about those months, she said. All she knew was that one day he found a way to get away, and somehow he found her son Tim. Tim brought Steven home, and the family took him in as a fifth child. What else could they do? Her eyes looked steadily at me. Her small, time-creased hands rested in her lap. I shifted on the couch, re-crossed my legs. Wow, I said, inadequately.


Steven. The man who painted our back patio and snaked our drains. Someone who would never excite comment, who looks just like you and me and the thousands of others who drive down Tustin Avenue every day. Deceived. Enslaved. Rescued. 

* * *

Steven is one person. One is such a small fraction of the estimated 14,500 to 17,500 people who are trafficked into the U.S. every year, of the 27 million people enslaved in the world today. In such a giant wave, one feels like a water molecule. And yet.

Steven found one person. Tim couldn't do much on his own, but he told one person. Barbara did what she could, and she told one person. And I'm telling you. 

Yes, Steven is one person. One less person in slavery today. Yes, Tim and Barbara and me and you--we are each of us, one person. One more person to add a voice, a dollar, a helping hand. 

I don't have to be more than one to do something. I just have to be willing to be one more, fighting in my own way so that every day or hour or moment there can be one less.

I'm running for their lives to raise money for Love146's child sex slavery aftercare, prevention, and research efforts around the world. You can join me in running and fundraising, donating, or spreading the word about the realities of modern day slavery.  And if you're writing for Human Trafficking Awareness Day, come link up at Run for their Lives.