Beyond The Policy

by Frenchie

I write this as a sex worker, a parent, and someone shaped by systemic harm, such as criminalization and stigma, and committed to community accountability, which informs my work. Harm reduction, consent-based frameworks, and non-carceral approaches to anti-trafficking and mutual aid guide my perspective. I recognize that experiences of sex work, coercion, and survival exist on a spectrum, and I write with respect for those who identify as sex workers, survivors, both, or neither. This piece reflects my perspective and practice, not a universal narrative.

Beyond The Policy

I sit at my desk, collaged with Build-A-Scene sticker sheets, my cat Stella curled in a ball next to my iMac screen. My screen is filled with varying tabs from my personal school email, my sex worker Proton account full of tabs with sites like Zoom, Google Sheets, and Docs. My coffee steams in my Dollar Tree ghost mug- black with white ghosts stamped all around it- just the spinach I need to keep going. 

Listen to the Audio Version of Frenchies Experience

I take a sip and begin the meeting. My Zoom background is the San Francisco bridge- a nod to my West Coast upbringing. I’m always so nervous meeting new folks, but I remind myself I wouldn’t be in this position if I hadn't asked for help so diligently and taken the risk of another rejection. I carry with me a sense of responsibility and mutual aid in everything I aim to do with the initiative. 

Another voice joins my own in my living room as a video pops up on my screen. A face smiles, almost in routine, as everyone does when we meet. I have walked miles in survival mode, and it’s always refreshing when folks stay lighthearted despite their struggles. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m naturally cynical and work hard to balance it out with my own positive affirmations. I just mean that living in America ain’t for the weak and there’s an unspoken, unified spirit of resilience within the industry. 

I’m inspired. 

By the stories. 

The efforts to carve out space for such a stigmatized group. 

Being a triple marginalized American myself, I can deeply relate to using public wifi for work and school, surviving on client funds and mutual aid, hustling to meet basic needs, while carving out a name for myself among the activists well known throughout our community. At the end of our meeting, I always express my gratitude for taking the time to meet with me. Initially, this program was just an idea in my head. 

There’s a side of me I silently acknowledge as a hustler, burrowing beneath the surface to create networks that all lead to the ultimate goal: be the change you wanna see in the world. 

One of the closest people to me - God rest his soul - was the mayor of the city he was born and raised in. I always admired him, always wanted tangible proof that he did indeed serve as a mayor. After years of side-quest tasks, I was mailed that proof by the state’s Chamber of Commerce. I am related to a very important person.

I’m not to be underestimated- even by myself. My relative was quoted saying about a project he was trying to start: “I hope to see everyone working together, Black and White, to make -redacted- a good place to live.” “I cannot do it alone; no one person can do it alone. It takes everyone cooperating to improve the quality of life for the citizens of redacted”, he concluded. 

I’m the daughter of the Black sheep of a Black family so fragmented that I, in kind, also became the Black sheep of my generation. I find solace in knowing this fact as well: as the old saying goes, hardly any well-behaved folks make history. Looking at the headlines of SNAP being cut nationwide, endless videos of panic rippling throughout TikTok, a post where a state senator in the name of “solidarity” made a challenge of living on a small food budget to see if he could survive off it- it pissed me the fuck off. 

How the fuck could the richest nation starve the citizens that make the nation as rich as it is? 

I could not, in my spirit, be so idle as to sit in panic. Haven’t you heard? I’m not to be underestimated. I’ll be damned if I don’t try and leave a legacy for my kin- and create a spark that ignites change. I spoke within my networks and pitched my idea. It stuck and has since expanded to help folks nationwide. 

I even got Tryst to post it on their blog. You can even search it on ChatGPT. 

We agreed on the logistics, and they are letting me use their namesakes and helping where they can. I’m also the interviewer, in charge of graphics, outreach, and vetting folks' lived experiences. I’m the listener, the face of this whole thing. 

No more noble than the next hoe. 

With the ever-widening gap so many sex workers are struggling to bridge for our people most in need, and the fact that this organization wasn’t formed to supplement an entire government program, it is obvious we need help with funding. 

Our goal is $25,000. 

When I enter a meeting, all I know about the applicant comes from what they shared in their application and emails. I’ve never seen their face; it’s literally putting a voice to the name. The diversity of our applicants is a genuine melting pot- younger, older, activist, parent activists, all with an energy of interest and vulnerability. The themes of resilience, hope, and activism were similar. Their needs, like getting a laptop to work properly, new clothes for their kids, a part they desperately need, or their car to maintain their livelihoods, don’t fit into our policy jargon. The laughs I’ve shared, the tears that welled in my eyes, and the memories will stick with me forever in limbo. The heartache I feel when I have to deny an applicant.

I can’t always help everyone. If you don’t qualify - aren’t a sex-worker activist nor a sex-worker with minor children - I refer you to a hotline that can help find local resources.

I also have had to check my own privilege. This is not about me. I’m not here as a savior. Eligibility and criteria don’t reflect the truth of folks’ situations. Folks break down their walls to share their stories with me. 

There’s a silent inner conflict, knowing their story and background, that brews when I’m forced to uphold structures while leading with compassion and kindness, and turning empathy way down. I only thought that in this day and age, white women are the faces of social justice movements. 

Especially the sex worker industry. 

But that’s not the case, obviously. 

Any person with deep enough will, and at least a mustard seed of faith does meaningful work. My boss required me to read, watch, and listen to educational materials on mutual aid, fundraising, and the sex work industry from a policy perspective. I’m excited to do it, sitting at my desk- a coffee cup and an inspirational, lucky Jigsaw duck rest. It’s educating me on the true meaning of mutual community care and the importance of representation in activism. 

This work holds me constantly accountable to respond to applicants thoroughly and promptly. To go forward, always with respect, active listening, and sometimes acknowledging discomfort. I’m in this imposter syndrome stage where I’m always feeling like I’m not an important enough guy for the job. I have doubts- what if I fail? Ruin my non-existent reputation? What if graphics suck and everyone just scrolls on by? 

Higher-ups convince me, the applicants themselves, and even the numbers from our fundraising that success is more than outcomes, numbers, or logistics. This is reflective of the dignity I bring, trust everyone- applicants, higher-ups, and their belief in me to follow through. With every email, meeting, and approval, the initiative reforms. I end the meeting after thanking the applicant and sending them off. The conversations have stayed with me long after I ended the meetings - their personal circumstances, resilience, and creativity. I see pieces of myself in them. One thing I think folks underestimate about activism work- no matter the sector or industry - is that it comes with its own emotional labor. 

Conversations’ remnants replay what was said, leave regret for things unsaid, or I could’ve said differently, how badly I wish I could meet all their needs. Their stories and vulnerabilities haunt my mind in idle hours, while doing dishes, while lying in bed. It’s so real: holding space for pain, relatable belonging to folks who look like me, have been me. It helps regulate my emotions when I'm triggered by the struggles they face on their journeys. It’s expected to be on, reassuring, and to keep your composure when you hear of harm done all at once. This is silent, isolating, and rarely acknowledged. 

Don’t get me wrong - I’m not here for accolades. I’m about amplifying the voices of sex workers and building mutual aid channels through community care. Activist work matters because silence and inaction hurt us all. There’s a sense of grief and hope that coexist. Grief for the poverty and harm systematically plaguing our industry, especially those of my complexion, those most marginalized, those who never truly get rest. Hope is alive in the movement, in the conversations, even difficult ones, sprouting rosebuds from the foundation of our movement. 

Showing up again and again is how change learns your name. These meetings, the middle ground we, where people can anonymously lay down their burdens and hang their capes for a bit of rest, influence future decisions. What questions to ask, what not to ask, and how we can collaborate with activists in the future across the nation (potentially) all shape this movement. I commit to checking my privilege and saviorism. I commit to consistently educating myself about fundraising, mutual aid, sex worker rights, and how I can show up for my coworkers. 

To the initiative, I commit to being present, consistent, and as understanding as possible. I commit to giving my comrades all the respectful, nonjudgmental space they need.

Dear Reader,

You’re obviously someone who supports sex workers     -     

You’re reading this article written by a low    -    income, Black, mentally ill sex worker.

I invite you to rethink how you see mutual aid.

It’s not a handout, 

It’s not begging, 

It’s a hand - up.

It’s not eBay money; it's hard-earned support for our brothers and sisters in the community.

It's not one - and - done; it’s a lifestyle. 

I sit at my desk, left in the wake of those conversations, petting Stella. I close out my email, Zoom, tabs, & pull up Sheets and Docs. I take my notes, then close those tabs too. 

I gulp my coffee, smiling at the screen as I gain comedic relief in an old Primm’s Hood Cinema video. I push forward with my legacy.