You noticed I'm holding q-cards.

I'm holding q-cards

because they are going to help me
focus on my message

while at the same time,
shielding me from painful memories,

and intrusive thoughs,

because my story 
isn't an easy one to tell.

In fact, every time I tell my story,

I'm re-traumatized.

But if sharing my story means

that one more girl 
has a chance of freedom,

then it's worth it for me.

Growing up in my family wasn't easy,

mental health problems and abuse

can destabilize a family.

But, abuse doesn't just exist in a vacuum.

It doesn't just start or stop
in one idividual's life,

it permiates every action
and activity of their being.

Mental health problems
and abuse led to neglect,

and neglect left me 
on the streets of Scarborough,

as a very young girl.

I distinctly recall going back to school.

Remember each year
the teacher would ask us?

"Write down what you did last summer."

I was so ashamed, I was paralised.

I didn't go to summer camp.

No, I didn't go to the cottage.

I was the kid 
that played outside all day long.

There was no regular structure.

There was no routine for most anything.

One summer, I was raped by a stranger,

and other, abuse integrated
by the neigborhood boys.

I was always in fight or flight mode.

It seemed like danger 
was lurking around every corner.

What I learned that summer

was how to remain hypervigilant,
how to avoid attack,

something that no young girl
should ever have to learn.

But it didn't stop
with the neighborhood boys.

I would later be abused at the hands
of multi generational pedofile.

And it was his words that kept me trapped.

When he said,

your parents won't love you anymore
if you tell on me.

In my isolated environment
I believed him.

And my behaivors started to reflect
the environment that I lived in.

I don't remember the time back then

when my boddy ever felt like my own.

At 17, I started moving from club to club.

I first started stripping.

Then later, I worked for a smut magazine

where I would meet
some of the most dangereous people

I'd ever encountered.

Still, I was on this never ending quest

to have some form of agency
over my own body,

a source of power I had never had before.

One day, my phone rang,

I was looking at my gas gauge
sitting on empty.

It was my old co-worker 
from the magazine company.

He called me to tell me that

he was running Toronto's
largest massage parlour.

And he wanted me to come
and join his stable.

The word "stable"

didn't even give me pause.

Well, on the outside 
it looked like a normal bussines

except it wasn't.

This massage parlour had ten rooms
and they were always busy.

There were between forty to sixty
women and girls on rotation in the spa.

A massage was between 40 and 50 dollars.

We'd get a 10 dollar commission,

if you didn't have a fine.

And you could have a fine 
for just about anything,

being late, talking back
or not having a perfectly primmed body.

It was expected that the girls
could earn considerably more money

by doing extras.

And by doing extras,

I am talking about some of the
most unimaginable and degrading acts.

Police raids? They occured in these places

but no police officer, no by law official 
ever offered me help.

No one ever said "Hey, is there
somewhere else you'd rather be?"

or "I know somebody you can call.

Can I connect you two?

And this would be my life 
for the next nearly nine yaers.

Maybe you are listening to my story

and you're thinking 
"how foolish is this girl!"

But I wasn't foolish.

I was vulnerable,

I was naive,

and I was a perfect target.

I didn't have a sense of belonging.

I didn't feel wanted or valued
for anything other than my body.

I had started to deceive myself,

this is my choice, I'm making this money.

But in hindsight,

there wasn't my choice involved at all.

This wasn't work, it was trafficking.

I was told how to dress,
who to have sex with

where to live, everything.

I felt scared almost all the time.

The man who recruited me

he manipulated me into thinking,
believing that he was my protector,

my boyfriend, except he wasn't.

He was my trafficker and I was
little more than his property.

Over time, he made me a manager.

Made me. This was not an act of saving me.

This was not a promotion.

This was him trying to build his status
and grow his power.

On paper, he ran a licensed
body rub parlour.

This allowed him to look like a
legitimate bussinesman.

This license allows you to rub
need or stimulate

any muscle in human body.

Officially, these words don't mean
that sex is on the menu.

But in my experience, and thousands
of others suggests differently.

Somewhere between the letter of law

and the predatory practises of
massage parlour owners and operators,

the willingness for police 
to look the other way,

our city has created
a licensed brothel system.

A massage parlour keeps the schedule,

manages all of the advertising,

and fields all of the calls,

freeing up the trafficker
to look for another victim.

Buyers? They don't have to 
go to a seedy motel.

Massage parlours an holistic centers

ones on the way to and from
your home and work.

They provide a facada of acceptability

safety and option on a woman's part.

But even worse, the fact that 
all this happens

inside of a licensed system means that

we are enshrining a man's right
to buy a living breathing human being.

That's what we are talking about.

This is what sex trafficking 
looks like in Canada.

It is the brothel hidden in plain sight

where women are trapped
and many enslaved.

And here all of us,

all of us are deceived into believing that

what's hapening is a woman's choice.

You see, our cities license these parlours

and holistic centres.

And in their point of view

they're not officially granting
a licence for a brothel