Page 76 of See My Words

The women snatched up the packets, stuffing them into pockets and purses before wandering off in different directions. “I have sealed, clean needles for anyone using tonight,” Beej called after them. “You know there’s no judgment here. I just want you all to be safe.”

Rylan watched in bemusement as she and Scott proceeded to set up an elaborate display on the folding table, complete with baskets full of condoms and lube and the aforementioned syringes. There were baby wipes, small tubes of hemorrhoidal cream, travel-size bottles of mouthwash, and various other hygiene items. Small laundry baskets contained neatly folded stacks of what looked to be clean, used clothes, including new packages of plain cotton underwear.

“Where do you get all this, Sister?” Rylan asked. “Donations?”

“Yes. It’s a ministry my diocese runs, and we partner with other entities like Searchlight. We have a clothing and shoe drop box at church, and any monetary donations go for the personal items.” She waved her hand at the RV. “We bring the mobile unit out once a week to provide showers, and as often as I can on weekends, I get friends of mine—doctors, dentists, hair stylists—to donate their time for exams and haircuts.”

“That’s amazing,” Rylan said sincerely. “It looks like you’re doing fantastic work.”

A boy in his late teens wandered up and stuffed his pockets with some syringes, along with a few condoms. Scott greeted him, and before long, they were involved in a deep discussion off to the side, their voices low and intense.

“Being an ally to sex workers isn’t about rescue,” Beej remarked, watching them. “It’s about support. Respect. Dignity.”

“I agree. That’s why I want to work on erasing the stigma—”

“By taking pictures of them?” Beej interrupted, nodding at Rylan’s camera. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”

Rylan fingered the camera self-consciously, and then, deciding he had nothing to lose, told her all about his project. When he was finished, instead of seeming enthusiastic, Beej frowned, saying, “But that sort of project isn’t about helping sex workers, or trans women, it’s about helping yourself.”

Rylan blinked. “What? No, I—”

“Sure, it is.” Beej put her hands on her hips. “It’s about selling magazines, newspapers, whatever. Making a name for yourself. Publishing yet another article about sex workers isn’t ‘helping’ them.”

“I’m prodecriminalization, Sister,” Rylan said in an earnest tone. “Publishing an article on the day-to-day lives of marginalized women will help bring awareness, promote understanding. It’ll show that this is work, a job, not something that should be criminalized.”

Beej’s face softened. “I can tell you’re passionate about this—Rylan, is it?” When he nodded, she went on. “Rylan, I field probably half a dozen requests each month for interviews, observations, ride-alongs, you name it, and every journalist or student writing a thesis thinks their piece is going to revolutionize the sex industry as we know it. But the truth is, if a study needs to be done or an article written or some pictures taken, there’s a sex worker who can, will, or has done it at least as well in their own voice.”

Rylan didn’t know what to say, and his cheeks burned. “I—”

“The publication you want to contribute to, does it have paywalls? Will the article be accessible by sex worker organizations and those wishing to educate themselves? Or is it that only paid subscribers can read it, those who’ll be titillated by some ‘poverty porn,’ forgotten as soon as something else catches their eye?”

Scott finished his conversation with the boy and walked over to stand at Rylan’s shoulder.

“These are the questions you need to ask yourself when deciding whether the work you’re doing will directly and materially benefit the people you’re studying. Or is it all take and no give, essentially a tourist visit into their lives?”

Beej then turned to Scott. “Is Javier all right?”

“No. He was raped in the jail holding tank after being picked up on a failure to appear warrant a few days ago.”

Beej closed her eyes for a moment. “Will he stick around long enough for me to get a social worker out to talk to him?”

“I’m not sure. He’s looking to trade for drugs, says he just wants to tweak to forget, but I tried to stall him by convincing him to take a shower, have something to eat. He’s inside the RV.”

Beej patted Rylan’s shoulder, and her tone wasn’t unkind as she said, “Lots to think about, huh? I’m not against what you’re doing, I just want to be sure you’re looking at it from all angles.”

Rylan cleared his throat. “Thanks, Sister.”

She strode off, and Scott looked at Rylan with narrowed eyes. “Everything okay, Ry?”

Rylan pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Just, uh—I don’t know.” He gestured toward the empty wagon. “You need to take that back?”

Scott shook his head. “No, Beej can drop it back off at the Ministries for me. You want to head out, go to my place? I have a VIP gig tonight, but I should be done by one a.m., and it’d be nice to come home to you waiting for me.” He slipped his arm around Rylan’s waist.

At that moment, all Rylan wanted to do was be alone…alone to process the fact his career-making project had just blown up in his face, leaving him rudderless, without direction. He pushed Scott’s arm away and stuffed his camera into his backpack before slinging it over his shoulder.

“Nah, I’m gonna walk around for a while. Do some thinking.”

“Walk around by yourself? To think about what?” Scott’s tone was anxious, and Rylan flapped his hand at him.