From Harvard to Homeless to Homey to Hooker

A Hooker with a Degree in One Hand and a Rap Sheet in the Other
Monday, November 19, 2018
I have a morbid sense of humor. I find amusement in things that others might find depressing, upsetting, even mean…I readily make myself the brunt of a joke if it makes me laugh. This practice is called “gallows humor.” I always understood gallows humor to be the jokes people made between themselves as they waited their turn to put the noose around their necks during public hangings. If there was ever a time that would benefit from levity, that would be it. How can I not laugh at the fact that somehow my Harvard got ahold of my prison address at the Women’s Community Correctional Center, called W Triple C.. I had to chuckle at the thought of the alumni affairs office rushing the magazine to me since I was valued as a graduate, only to have the magazine sit in the prison mail room because inmate desires were low priority. “Next time no come jail,” the ACO (Adult Correctional Officer) snapped at me in Hawaii’s colloquial dialect, called pidgin, when I asked about the late mail. Correspondence from the outside breathed a bit of life into that stagnant prison world.

The Alumni magazine situation taught me a lesson. I was the same person on the inside, but how people viewed me and made decisions on my worth was determined by what they thought I had done, not by anything anyone actually knew about me. Staus is an invention, a construct. I was either this scholar or that criminal.  Not surprisingly, the felony negates the honors, negativity being so much stronger than positivity in humans. In fact, the honors become a source of gallows humor at best to cruel mockery at worst. I have heard, “They made a movie about a girl who overcame adversity called Homeless to Harvard. You’re Harvard to Homeless. To Homey. To Hooker.” Ok, that’s funny, but “What a waste” or “She is proof affirmative action doesn’t work” were far less accurate and way more painful. The fact is, on a soul level, I am neither scholar nor criminal, my deepest identity has nothing to do with the things I have done that society spotlights. In my humble opinion, I believe I Am the purpose in my heart. Since status is a construct I am going to be the builder and decide “me” for myself.  know what I want people to say when asked to complete this sentence: Caroleena is so [fill in blank]. I want people to say, Caroleena is so Positively Impactful. This blog, our blog, uplifts and encourages. My identity is the uplifted, the encourager. According to who? According to me. Failure is not an identity, it is an event. Prison is not where I “ended up” but where I passed through. Good thing I did or I wouldn’t have to stories of lesbianism behind bars, which will begin next post. By the way, I always want to know what someone did time for because as much as I know that crime doesn’t define a soul, the things people get caught for are decent indicators about what’s going on with them—and seldom the one and only time they made that move. I will tell you because I know you’re like me and you want to know.  I was caught with $10 worth of black tar heroin in 2002. The manner of arrest is so embarrassing I haven’t mustered the nerve to be that cringingly honest yet. Not yet. But I will keep my word that my blog is the most honest account of (some of) the taboo and the personal.

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Published by X-Streetwalker Turned Sex Talker

Caroleena used to be a drug addicted hooker on streets of downtown Honolulu in the early years of the 21st century. She was not the only learned streetwalker among the sex worker addicts. This group would have been a liberal college admissions officer's dream of diversity seeing as how they represented such a wide range of ages, races, family types, locations of origin, education levels, and gender identities. The two constants were trauma and dependency. Everyone out there had experienced life altering trauma which spurred them to seek refuge in drugs. Addiction was the unexpected phenomenon that kept them stuck in the dope. This downtown area was different from other drug saturated areas of America in one important way. The U.S. is the most violent country in the world, but in this corner of the nation there were no street gangs, no gun violence. You wouldn't get shot but you were probably going to be beaten up and robbed at some point. Interpersonal violence between intimate partners, friends, and family members was viewed as a natural part of being close to people. "Domestics" was something an individual brought upon herself or himself by causing problems in an interpersonal relationship. Caroleena, the perennial pariah even among society's rejects, had no intimate associates who might harm her. Prostitution was not as risky on Oahu as it was most everywhere else because the island was just too small. Everyone was somehow connected to everyone else with only something like two degrees of separation. You commit a crime, someone will know who you are and someone else will know how to find you. Hookers rarely got killed. Honolulu's relative safety allowed Caroleena over 10 years of street longevity until the scene ended when authorities started arresting men for allegedly soliciting undercover police for sex and posting their pictures on the evening news. ExpertEscort2018.com/ tells Caroleena's adventures during her decade of addiction and its consequences--homelessness, prostitution, drug dealing, incarceration, family destruction, the list goes on. Every story relates events Caroleena experienced, witnessed, or imagined. The tale of this outcast is skillfully and paradoxically told in the language of the elite. The wording of the posts is itself a testimony to the wide grip that addiction has on all levels of society, even impacting the privileged who were previously thought to be immune to the troubles of the lower class. During these days of opiate addiction maybe she can answer some questions and present applicable solutions. If not, you are still in for a hell of a good read.

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