Added: Janet Labarre - Date: 21.08.2021 14:01 - Views: 36078 - Clicks: 2578
The girl in cobalt blue was completely unexpected—seeing her was like finding a Picasso at a swap meet. She wore high blue-suede boots and a short matching trench coat, cinched tight around her narrow waist. I saw that she was Indian as she brushed past the little knot of drunks trading drinking secrets on that Duluth corner.
They too, seemed startled by her beauty and tried vainly to get her attention. Her classic Lakota features, however, were on the brink of corruption. She had the kind of drunken eyes I know well, having seen them in the faces of my relatives since I was. Eyes like those come from too many binges, the kind that last for weeks or months.
I introduced myself and told her of my work writing about sex trafficking. There was something authoritative about this regal young woman, so my legs, seeming to have developed a mind of their own, followed her into the adult bookstore. The burly deskmen were too startled to object as we passed by them. My sideways gait, imposed by old lady hips, seemed to convince them, and they nodded wordlessly, their mouths open in wonderment. We breezed past the shelves of sex toys and magazines to the rear of the store, where a row of phone booth—size rooms stood with the words live girls displayed in flashing lights.
Each booth had an old-fashioned telephone heet that made a harsh whirring alert noise when the receiver was lifted. In response, a girl would emerge from behind a filthy sheet and sit on a little bar stool separated from customers by a sheet of clear plastic. This was her workplace.
Their bold laughing was muffled as it mixed with various sexual moans and groans emerging from other private areas in the store where videos were being shown. The girl in cobalt blue fumbled behind the sheet in one of the booths for her purse and finally emerged from a side door. I suggested we go for coffee. She ordered her drink as if she were royalty, accustomed to the fulfillment of her every whim.
After some argument, she allowed me to pay for her coffee. Her name was Debra. Although very intoxicated, she exuded refinement and pride, and she clearly wanted me to know that she was so much more than a girl who sat in a Live Girls! She looked to be her mid 20s. I was completely disarmed by this rare spirit who could display such courage in the face of her grim reality.
I gave her my business card, which she folded into a tiny square and carefully placed in the box of her Marlboro Black cigarettes, where I knew she would never find it again. Debra told me she was Oglala Lakota. She pronounced it like someone who knew the language. A descendent of the great chief Sitting Bull, she came to Duluth from the Southwest to find her mother, whom she had never met.
The meeting must have been a profound disappointment, because Debra soon relapsed into alcohol and drugs that led to another stint in rehab. I learned that she had a long struggle with addiction and mental health problems.
Her story spilled out in a chaotic, poetic stream of consciousness that was riveting. Being with her was almost like being at ceremony—I was silenced Beautiful women seeking sex Lakota listening and being witness to whatever this remarkable girl wanted to tell me. Following rehab in Duluth, she relapsed almost immediately and drifted to her current occupation. I soon learned she was staying at a homeless shelter. During our chat, she made numerous trips to the restroom. I saw that she had a bottle of vodka in her purse. She held her head erect as she teetered back to the restroom on those high heels.
Later, rummaging in her purse, she brought out s torn from a notebook.
Her handwriting was beautiful, and I told her so. She gave me the letter. It was a painful screed of anger and hurt toward a father who had wronged and disappointed her in some unnamed way. Later I saw that the writing scrawled off into huge letters as she changed from pen to marker, underscoring obscenities.
My heart is still broken from when I had to call the cops on my dad. Grandmommy cried on the edge of her bed for two hours. Debra was crying now as she watched me read her letter, the tears dripping heavily onto her blue coat. She looked at me sharply. She quickly regained her composure as we walked back to the bookstore. After a moment of stunned silence, I began to laugh. Then we laughed together, that loud gravely Indian woman laugh that comes in waves and makes one stagger. Later, when we parted, she extended her hand to me as though she expected me to kiss it.
I briefly considered offering her money but sensed it would have been a terrible insult. All of our content is free. There are no subscriptions or costs. The Press Pool. About Us. Donate Today. Indian Country Today is a nonprofit news organization. Will you support our work? By Mark Trahant.
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That Beautiful Oglala Lakota Girl in the LIVE GIRLS! Booth