This contains personal-stories
Koalas
Description: A mother koala carries her baby on her back.
Pour Painting #1
Description: red, purple, turquoise, and gold swirled together in a shapeless pour.
By Trese, an artist who wished to remain anonymous
The name of my piece is called: Microaggression of a male DMST survivor
Artist: Eric Harris, B.S.W., HTFC (Human Trafficking Field Consultant)
“The piece is an optical illusion to represent that we can’t always see what a person is going through until we get closer to understanding someone pain, resiliency, and we are not defined by our past. The top layer represents my trafficker, my mother, and teachers and the words probation said to me growing up after my exploitation. The middle layer illustrates my accomplishments since leaving the life. The bottom represents my goals for the future.” by Eric Harris, B.S.W., HTFC (Human Trafficking Field Consultant)
Hey friends this is a description of the painting. The piece is called micro aggression of a DMST male survivor. The reason why I made the piece the way I made it is underneath [the paint] there is writing. On the first top half is everything that my traffickers, my mother, teachers, probation and everything that I was involved with after my trafficking situation—it is all the words they tell me—what I couldn’t do, or a path that I was headed on. Some of the words are triggering so I will not give a verbatim of the words that are written.
The middle part is all the accomplishments I have made after exiting the life. Becoming a social worker, father, grandfather, consultant, all the accomplishments I have always wanted to have and that I do have in life. The bottom part is the future. Displaying my hopes for the future. Hopefully becoming a great grandparent, a licensed clinical social worker and all the other things I wish for in my future.
The reason why it’s made with writing underneath is because from a far it looks like a piece of modern art. But also it represents how we see people from a far and the closer you get to the painting you can see the verbiage that I’ve laid down. Also representing the fact that we need to look at people closer before we judge.
Not only that but it shows from afar that we really don’t know what’s going on with a person but when we get up close, we can definitely see someone’s issues. We don’t always know where a person is coming from and that’s why I made the piece like that. Thank you.
Biography: Eric Harris is a consultant and field expert with many years of service in human trafficking education and advocacy. Eric earned a bachelor’s in social work and is an alum from Anderson University Indiana and is a member of National Association of Social Workers (N.A.S.W.) Mr. Harris served as a Human Trafficking field consultant for the state of Indiana and was the co-chair and founder of Lived Experiences Experts Working (L.E.E.W.G) for the IPATH taskforce when it was active. Mr. Harris is a graduate of the Human Trafficking Leadership Academy through National Human Trafficking Training and Technical Center (N.H.T.T.A.C.) and the Heal Trafficking MGH institute train the trainer academy 2020. Eric has a great passion for advocating for survivor’s rights and working to remove the stigma surrounding survivors of violence and human trafficking. Read more about Eric’s accomplishments here.
Interested in consulting with Eric? Eric specializes in working with males, educating on human trafficking, policy inclusion, program inclusion with having survivors as staff, implicit bias training, and mental health. Email Eric at eaharris1904@gmail.com to make an appointment. Rates are contingent on stakeholder needs.
Painting Description: Textured background that is very rough to the touch, but you can see the grooves. The bottom left of the painting starts dark black and slowly transitions to dark purple and hombre effects into light colors at the top right corner. There is one lotus flower in the center, one to the left, and two to the left in the colors of pink and white. There are abstract blue and green lily pads to complete the aesthetic.
Lotus flowers, much like survivors of complex trauma, have learned to thrive in the most adverse of circumstances. These gorgeous specimens have reclaimed the concept of beauty and what it means to grow something lovely from filth, one that has become a beacon of light for my own healing journey. 15 years ago, I found myself caught in my own murky water and found my own way out 2 years later. Much like a lotus flower, I learned to thrive in the unkind world that helped to create the circumstances leading to my exploitation. One of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn during my 13 year recovery journey was to know when it is time to stop reliving the pain and to let myself heal and enjoy life. The voices of all my abusers past have faded as the years passed, and I slowly learned that I am worthy of love, acceptance, and happiness. They were so loud for so many years that even after I broke free from them, I still could not rid myself of their influence. You’re ugly. You are worthless. You will never find anyone else because no one wants to put up with you. You’ll never find a husband. God hates you. Everyone hates you. No one will help you. You don’t deserve to live. I think I was just afraid that if I let my pain go, I wouldn’t know where I came from or the kind of person I would become. I guess I was afraid that I would lose touch with my reality and forget that it even happened. But then it happened after several YEARS re-programming, re-defining, and re-learning what it means to thrive. I let my beautiful petals grow brighter and lovelier through each season of growth so that I could still have a life full of everything I thought I had lost. I decided I was worthy. Like a lotus, I fought through the murk and the mud to get to the light. And then I became my own light.
Image description: Caucasian non-binary individual with a big smile in front of a brick building wearing my favorite tie-dye shirt. Wild styled short pixie cut blonde hair
Creator Bio: An alumnus of Washburn University with a clinical Masters of Social Work degree, Charlie dedicates their life to serving others like them, CPTSD (chronic post traumatic stress disorder) survivors. Their day job as a social worker and Missing Youth Specialist on the Kansas Special Response Team for Missing and Exploited Youth provides them with opportunities to empower and engage runaway and exploited youth in foster care to overcome complex and compounded trauma, and find the path to who they want to be. Charlie is a dedicated advocate with specializations for persons who have experienced human sex trafficking, commercial sexual exploitation, childhood trauma, interpersonal violence, and other complex or compounded traumas. Charlie is part of the LGBTQ community as a nonbinary person (they/them), and a staunch leader and participant in social justice activism. They are an ally for all trans and/or persons of color, as well as dedicated activist for Black Lives Matter and Trans Lives Matter movements. Charlie is a member of the National Human Trafficking Survivor Network and Survivor Leaders Institute, and has delivered keynote and training sessions to professionals from around the country. Charlie is also an accomplished artist and expert in the healing arts for survivors of complex trauma. Featuring bright colors and textures, their art has been featured in 35 states and sold to patrons from around the globe.
Too much. Too loud. Too vocal. Drawing attention. Advocating loudly. Never satisfied.
In the space of a few weeks, these words became loud in my mind. Back to school meant lots of conversations, text, and e-mails. Needs. Disagreeing with people, and working really hard to come across diplomatically. My mind bent over gasping for air while trying not to throw up. Not because it was bad. Or, received poorly. But, because advocating is hard. And, scary. Necessary. While invoking fears that if things are pushed too hard, too loudly, or we just take up too much space, my children could suffer the repercussions. Part of me wants to apologize for speaking up at all. Making waves. I can feel it. It’s too much space out of a whole lot of kids with needs. We’re not staying in our area.
A trip to the park buzzing over the excitement of a new swing. One I can roll a wheelchair up on, and watch my daughter lean back and smile in the breeze. I pull up, and immediately feel all the blood rush to my face. They’ve built a swing. A whole separate area for kids with disabilities. I can’t believe it. How did this happen? So I speak up. I arrange meetings and have hard conversations. I listen, and try to understand. I tell them what I want, knowing the cost is astronomical in a Midwestern city that has lost its factories and is struggling to survive. And, I know, I’m taking up too much space in the financial agenda of a city.
We’re out. My daughter is excited. She makes her noises. Grunty and screechy. Over and over. It’s loud. People move away or stare. They don’t know how to respond to it. She’s just communicating. We’re used to it. But, all of a sudden, I know. Too much space. We are occupying more than our share of the noise level.
Sunday morning. Front row during worship because that’s where my daughter wants to be. She can see all the instruments. The singers. There’s room to dance. And, a few times, she makes her way on stage and just sits there, watching everyone, dancing, and sometimes even singing. I breathe deep and purposeful to slow my heart, thankful I can’t see anyone behind me. She darts quickly to make an attempt at grabbing the guitar, and I sprint on stage and grab her. This sort of thing repeats a few times, amidst her other antics of trying to get me to hang her upside down, do flips, and use me as a jungle gym. I can feel it. Sweat is starting to pour out of me. We’re taking up more than our share of space. Drawing attention away from the things people want to be focusing on.
The tears are no longer staying just behind the surface. They spill out onto my cheeks. I’m reminded how long it took for people like her to be allowed any space in society at all. Their space used to be one that hid them away. Gave them less area than was theirs. Took a family, an education, self worth, outdoors, human interaction, dignity, and at times, their lives.
I drop her off at Sunday school, and slink into the back of the church. The weight of the past week of advocating, and feeling too much settles in. I’m self conscious from the worship time, and uncertain whether bringing her in for it, no matter how much she begs, is truly the right thing to do. Our pastor stands up, talks a little about the set up of Sunday school, who goes where, when. And, out loud, in front of everyone, welcomes my daughter by name to be part of worship as she sees fit.
It’s okay for her to take up more space now. To grab back what was denied to so many before her. To loudly declare that she is alive, and has worth. This is her time. Her place. And, we will be here, taking up more than our share of space.
About the Author:
Andrea Mae is a mom, advocate, writer, and special education aid. She spends time caring for her three children: juggling therapies and specialists, reading, hiking, kayaking, hammocking, eating Reese’s, and being followed around by her dog-Daisy.. She is active in her neighborhood and community, advocating for the rights and needs of people with disabilities, and speaking on the topics of disability and theology. She is currently obtaining her degree in special education.