Addiction and Prostitution in Hawaii

Normal People Have No Respect for My Efforts to Humanize Sex Workers and that hurts!

Wow, what an Ugly Interaction with a big wig Honolulu attorney. Good thing I was prepared, but it still stung.

I don’t mind sharing this bit of my life with you, mostly because no one I know reads anything I write. It is easier to be honest when you’re not being honest with a specific someone. Anyway, I have been involved with a dispute about people treating me badly where I live. I brought the action myself because to be, again, honest, no attorney wanted to back up someone with my “background.” And this “background” always justifies people mistreating me. You might logically ask why I would keep the background in the foreground by doing this blog, and you would have a logical point. The reason I have publicly declared myself a self appointed spokesperson for people who could care less about anyone speaking for them is that I was, first and foremost, trying to find a way to take my record and make it work for me and not against me. This record is the thing that excludes me from employment and other opportunities. What if I could make money off of the stories that I know–what a coup that would be! Do you think I should pretend that I was primarily community minded, that I wanted to be an advocate for the voiceless who are voiceless because people do not care what they have to say and they have nothing to say because they are too busy pursuing their addictions anyway? Should I have pretended to have reached a place of enlightenment that has always eluded me by making myself out to be self sacrificing so much so that I would give up a fresh start in order to establish possible understanding of the outcasts? I could have lied but to what end? There is no fresh start. The internet makes public record so very public. It is not front and center if you google my name, but if you know how to access Hawaii court records, you can enter someone’s first and last name and you can find out their entire legal history in this state. Felony, misdemeanor, lawsuits, divorce–it is all right there if you go to E Court Kokua. There is no need to pay a professional for a background check if you want to access an individual’s legal history in Hawaii, minus family court confidential stuff. I was acting on the premise that “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” is a workaround your unfavorable record. If I could repackage my legal history I could get people to see things my way and reduce the stigma–I thought. I thought wrong. I believed I could make money off of my stories, I planned. My plan has yet to come to fruition. Finally, I could make people see the outcasts as people. I could not change people’s views. There was nothing but contempt during the interaction with the attorney who is a member of the establishment with a capital E, Establishment. I could tell he was tripping over himself trying not to reveal the higher minded purpose of my writing, but only because I knew what he was not saying about the intellectual side of my work. But no one else would suspect an intellectual take on street life is being downplayed by one of my detractors! I think for anyone listening to this attorney give his view of me, with the underlying message being I was treated badly because that is what I deserve, I think the most audible part of his speech was his contempt. In fact, his contempt was so strong it overpowered the particular meaning of any word, singly or in combination. I can only remember the feeling, I cannot recall what he actually said. The reality of the inescapability of my life makes me sad. I feel deflated which is a foreign feeling for someone likes me who rides on her energy much of the time. The social skills it takes to repackage my record in a way that is appealing to others, or at least not a complete deal breaker when it comes to knowing me, well those skills fall somewhere in the likablity range and I have never been high on that scale.

Will you dislike the depressing nature of this real time writing? If you knew my depressive self would you keep reading?

I never write when I am in the midst of a feeling but I am doing precisely that. I am trying to correct one of the things I believe has kept my blog from being more popular. I am trying to personalize my writing to give my readers a view into me so that they feel they know me. Me, the person who so desperately wanted to be someone that she looked for prestige outside of herself to fill that hole, but when a Harvard degree did not complete me, I gave up altogether feeling betrayed by what I perceived as a broken promise. I thought if I was successful I would feel a certain way, and stop feeling another way, and that is not what happened. Yes, the great vocabulary was there, for one thing, but belonging to a group, being on the inside–I thought that degree would earn me an invitation into people’s personal lives but it did not. I was not an outsider because I did not have a good enough resume. I was an outsider because of something I was or was not. That is why I tried drugs when they were offered to me, why I gave up on pushing forward in a career. Imagine striving for so long and hard only to end up alone at Christmas, yet again, with nothing but the pity invitation that people with families extend to loners on the holidays. That is where I was in New York City in 1996 when I met some people in a bar who wanted me to try smoking something out of a glass tube. I had never seen such a thing. But drugs–that was incredible. You had to know someone to know about drugs, you had to have connections for a way into the taboo and forbidden. I repositioned my hope to belong with the people doing the hidden forbidden. I thought I could belong there. I did not know drugs were a path to being completely alone and even more self obsessed than I already was. Not even self obsessed, but other obsessed. Obsessed with getting something outside of myself, and an obsession far more all consuming than the desire to achieve. No one would walk the path with me, but I did not know that when I tried the drug. We never experiment by ourselves. We are always presented a picture of how drugs is something special, elite even, and we see it as an opportunity to obtain something we have always wanted but had no hope of acquiring. We wanted to come in, and leave being an outsider behind. It was one of the few truly honest mistakes I have made in my life. I just did not know that all these years later I would be typing these words in a one bedroom apartment that I share with my cat, no people, no friends, no family. I did not know things would end up as they began. Except now, no one cares that I went to Harvard, if they even believe it.

I better keep the real me under wraps if I want anyone to keep reading.

I hope these depressing words are not too off putting. I just got through with the phone conference with the court so you are hearing the raw emotion. You ever hear how bored people are boring. I do know that depressed people are depressing, so I will stop now. The good news is that thousands of people around the world have found me temporarily amusing in very small doses. One must take one’s victories where they can be found. Discovering what people really think of me is a subject best left unexplored. And being real needs to give way to pretending. If I lost you my beloved readers, I would really be alone. So next post will be happy happy joy joy. If not, I will at the very least present you with some energizing outrage! Thanks for letting me share.

Purpose of this blog

What is the purpose of stories about Harvard Elite to the Street? An update

In February you asked for more info about the writing I am doing. I have settled on a new name for this blog: Hawaii Street Life: sexy, witty inside view by Harvard Grad in Hawaii streets.  Hawaii Street Life was accepted on May 23, 2021 as a space on Quora. So I am now an official contributor on Quora who gets asked questions, can answer any question on the site and post original content.  I saw the space on Quora called Life Behind Bars with hundreds of thousands of readers. I decided to apply as a contributor and I was accepted. We shall see how posting this blog’s content on Quora will impact my work and hopefully, my life as an eventual thought influencer.
This blog translates my unusual time off-track into meaningful content for everyday people with regular lives. My content encourages, educates, informs and even entertains. High quality writing is not the norm for subject matter that can be borderline adult (my content is appropriate for most audiences.) An intellectual work is not what people expect from a black lady who has had experiences with homelessness and addiction. I am being brutally honest. One purpose of the blog is to shatter stereotypes people have likely associated with people similarly situated.  I am never what they expect and my use of words, aside from the message, causes thinking people to self examine and expand their minds.


This Site is A Window Into A Different World

What is

Someone said this site is confusing so I figured I’d add a purpose section to explain what’s going on here with these words from a former sex worker who is also a graduate of an Ivy League University.

The Purpose

This site is for people who want to see what it is like to be part of a subculture that exists almost out of sight from the mainstream, and that is the world of the drug user. When a person starts using drugs he or she does not imagine drugs will take over. The take over will be so complete that people don’t use drugs as much as drugs use people. In the words of Narcotics Anonymous everyone’s focus becomes about getting drugs, using drugs, and finding ways and means to get more. The drugs are intoxicating but so is the feeling of being part of a secret world that a person never knew was there all along! The singleness of purpose has predictable results the new convert cannot imagine happening to him. Obviously many others don’t keep jobs and end up turning to theft or prostitution or selling drugs themselves. These activities inevitably result in arrest because no one can be perfect all the time and one mistake will get a person caught. The new recruit had always held certain beliefs about this kind of person, and like everyone else who is prejudiced against people she has never met, it’s extraordinary to find out that people differ from perceptions.

New People

There were people to meet that a person never would have given the time of day to before, but now! Conversations reveal that these people, who do this thing, they are very relatable. No family, no friends, abused, abandoned, perhaps once successful but now, homeless. The new user would never have spoken to a street person before, would never have imagined such a thing to be possible much less, desirable. But when you’re looking for drugs you come to a point where you do not care what you do or who you’re with. Even racism goes out the window if you need someone to get high. In an effort to find a safe place to use drugs you end up in places that were once unknown, like Single Room Occupancy (SRO) buildings, where each tenant has a tiny room and the entire floor shares a filthy bathroom in the hallway. The new recruit is not only excited but also appalled. The once inconceivable was becoming familiar and with a little more time, the once inconceivable becomes humdrum.

The Things You End Up Doing

It is understandable why sex and drugs would be paired together (I’m not sure about rock and roll). Sex and drugs are inextricably linked. Drugs make men , though not women, desire sex with strangers. Women, and men who take on the role of female in this context, use sex to get drugs. In spite of her best intentions to be different, addicted women do lose their jobs, their homes, and turn to the one resource they have to make money—their bodies. It does not take women long to learn that men who use drugs want sex and have no intention of sharing their dope. Sex with users to achieve a desired end is a waste of time. Women must branch out and ply their trade elsewhere.

Waikiki Working Girls

In the year 2000 in Honolulu there were two areas where men could find working girls right in the street like a farmers market. There was Waikiki, but not on the main drag with the most expensive hotels and shops, Kalakaua Avenue. In Waikiki the hookers were on the next street over from the beach, Kuhio Avenue, which ran parallel to Kalakaua. What a difference a block made. The hookers walked up and down in their glassine heels that were made to look like fish were swimming within the heels. These women were under the watchful eyes of pimps, who were black just like the stereotype. The pimps watched to make sure their girls worked from sun down to sun up and they were their to keep other pimps away from their girls. Most importantly, the pimps were waiting for their women to return with the $200 for each date, every penny. These women ordinarily did not do drugs besides weed. They had a reputation for giving rushed service because they had obligations to meet. Blacks and whites are both numerical minorities in Hawaii which is mostly Polynesian and Asian. But on Kuhio Avenue the women were black and white and only there for a few weeks before their group headed back to the mainland and another major metropolitan area with a public street serving as a “ho stroll.”

Downtown Hookers

The working girls downtown were very different. They were permanent residents and every one was addicted to ice, crack, heroin, or alcohol in some combination. They did not look nearly as good as the Waikiki girls but they were a whole lot less expensive. The minimum they needed to get dope was $20 and although they’d deny it if asked, they’d do $20 dates in the car. In downtown many of the “girls” are really boys dressed as girls but not trying to pass for women because there’s a huge demand for men who look like women but are obviously me. They are called “mahu’s” (pronounced MA-who) and I apologize if there’s a new PC term I don’t yet know. Anyway, if you let the sex workers get high they weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere. It was surprising how many men would bring the women home, but it was quite common. Some got off the street, some disappeared, some had been out there since the 90’’s. In Waikiki the men were mostly tourists. In downtown the men were residents from all over the island from rich to just rich enough to spare $20. Everyone’s a resident and long term friendships with “regulars” is standard.

These Stories Deserve Excellent Writing

If you’re like me you’ve noticed that if a site is about sex the quality of the writing is poor and they rely heavily on dirty words to maintain interest. Not this site. Caroleena, the author, was downtown in the year 200, before guys found women online and the street was where the money was made. As an Ivy League grad Caroleena has the skills to compile her stories and put them together in an organized, well written fashion. The readers are people interested in this alternative lifestyle without having to live it. As you scroll down the screen you will see stories and links to stories about the life. You will also find stories that include hidden recordings that feature the words of people who had also been there. There are also writings about current events, which today is October 2020, and these are events seen through the eyes of a scholar who’d been an addicted sex worker in 2000.

#Sex, #Drugs, #Prostitution, #Addiction, #Writing

Categories #LinkstoMyBlog Alienation Insecurity

I felt acne ruined me. Now…See Link to The Guardian

I understood this article , although my difficulties were reversed. The author had extreme acne and (apparently) parental support. I suppose I had moderate acne but no social support. The people who adopted me lived that the beauty people remarked about when I was a child, was marred.

The acne messages were repeated often and loudly:

  • She USED to be cute.
  • What happened to your face? [smirk]
  • Look how ugly you are! [while thrusting a mirror under my nose]
  • My lasting nickname made use of the fact that dark skin forms even darker marks when it is injured and also while healing. The marks can last for months. Hence, I became “spotty faced leopard.” Now that I think about it, the delight the the people who adopted me had in my misfortune was the greatest factor in them becoming “the people who adopted me” instead of parents. I held out hope that there was some other family for me (yes and no) I was so grateful not to be of their bloodline. The search for my birth mother gave me purpose I might not have had and I was spurred by the void left when I finalized the rejection others began. I was a de facto orphan on a mission. More on that later.
  • I am one of the minority of people who never enjoyed clear skin, not even now. I have never thought of acne as benefitting my character at all. Today, I learned something new. This linked article explained the Japanese concept that when something is broken, and repaired but still scarred, those scars make the thing all the more useful. The idea is meant to be applied literally, to damaged pottery, and figuratively, to damaged lives.
  • Epiphany

    The whole purpose of my site, the reason why I don’t wear a Harvard ring and shut up about the homelessness and addiction and sex work is that those things have left visible scars. The scars cause people to ask questions like I heard last week: what’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you married and successful and in a big house?

    My Life Scars

    The scars of my life show, clearly. My continuous mission is to find the beauty in the scars, to see my life as something other than a story of what might have been. I have been criticized for not giving people THE ANSWER to addiction and other woes. I don’t have it. I can only share my experiences and instead of doing my usual and providing the interpretation, I let the reader figure out how to use my life to help himself.

    Of all the words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these: it might have been. –Shakespeare

    If no, when I write well, my issues will be my good fortune and not just challenges to overcome. I will one day say, I am glad it worked out this way. And I will mean it about the acne too. Not there yet. But after this article, I see the path.


    Hope, Not A Bottom

    No drugs? Where’s the joy? I’ll have nothing left.

    Long term addict and streetwalker “Ivory,” six months before her death at age 48, doubting the wisdom of getting clean.

    If we are going to live with the relentless obsession about using drugs, if we are going to overcome screaming urges, we need a reason. Something to hope for, to believe in. Just as everyone needs a reason to get out of bed, so do we. Except in our experience the only goodness in our lives, however temporary, has come from getting high. Hitting bottom is an expression that doesn’t tell the truth about what we need. And what we need is the belief that in spite of all evidence to the contrary, there’s goodness waiting for us that’s way better than whatever reward we receive from using.

    Harvard X-Hooker in Hawaii,
    Appropriate wit and words