Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave (18 page)

Another consideration was that I was not comfortable with the attention the interviews brought. The first story had been good. It had let people around me know more about me, and because of that I fit in better than I had before. I did several interviews after that, however, and in most of them a privacy line was crossed. Back then I was not comfortable with strangers knowing too much about me. That extra information and the attention it drew only served to again make me different from my classmates. Rather than “Wow, Shyima, you’ve lived an amazing life,” which would have been okay, most of what I heard was, “Oh, poor, poor you.” It was depressing.

I didn’t want that kind of negative attention and didn’t understand why I couldn’t be left alone to fit in. Instead of increasing my circle of friends, the later interviews made me even more standoffish than I had been before, and I withdrew into myself.

It wasn’t until the next year that I learned that I had gotten paid to do some of the interviews. I had seen a letter from the IRS with my name on it. The letter was about taxes, and I asked Patty and Steve about it. It turned out that since I was a minor, the money was put into an account that they opened in my name, but to which they had access. It took a lot of work to get the tax forms straightened out. In the meantime I continued to put in as many hours as I could in the Explorer program and at work. I had moved on from Godiva and by my senior year of high school was putting in as many as twenty-two hours a week at Kipling.

Kipling was an upscale store that sold handbags, backpacks, and travel accessories. You may have seen some of their products around, as the monkey at the end of the zipper easily identifies them. The store was big on customer service, the products were easy for me to sell because I believed in the quality, and I liked that everything came in awesome colors. I adored my time there and quickly learned my products from top to bottom.

I started at Kipling as a sales associate but over the next few years moved up through the ranks into management. I also embraced any other activity I could find that kept me out of the house and away from the constant fighting there.

When I first moved in
with Patty and Steve, they told me they didn’t want me to date until I was seventeen. It was a reasonable request, but I went ahead and started when I was sixteen. I began dating not as a defiant act against my parents but because I wanted to fit in. What I wanted was to be a regular teenage girl, and my view of that included dating.

Since the day I’d been rescued I had been as far behind socially as I had been academically. While my first two foster homes had helped me catch up with my studies, they’d done little to integrate me into the real world, because I’d been prohibited from talking to boys. Since entering public high school I’d found myself in regular contact with the male species, and at first I felt shy, awkward, and uncomfortable around them. And speaking to a boy? It was beyond me—at first.

Over time I developed a friendship with a nice young man whom I met at school. He was a sweet, innocent boy who was there for me during the tumultuous times with my family. I wanted to spend time with this person who supported me, and eventually our friendship turned into boyfriend and girlfriend.

This was new, uncharted territory for me. I did not have any close girlfriends, or an older sister whom I could turn to for guidance. Patty was of no help because we had not bonded in such a way that I felt I could talk to her about something like this. Instead I did what I had done over and over again. I watched. I emulated other girls, and eventually my observations helped me feel more comfortable around boys. After all, 50 percent of the people on the planet are men. I needed to know how to interact with them.

The nice boy and I were a couple for about a year but parted ways before our junior prom rolled around. Instead of going to the prom with a “date” date, I went with a boy who was a friend. But I was excited. Prom is a rite of passage for many young people, and it was a milestone that I had once thought I would never achieve. Our theme as a couple was a gangster look. I found a sleeveless floor-length hot pink dress with a scoop neck and had my hair done up in a forties-style chignon. My date had a dark gangster hat with a wide white band along the crown; a dark suit with a short, wide white tie; a boutonniere; and lots of chains hanging from his belt. It was a fun look for a fun night. Our prom was held outdoors in a huge tent, and we got there in my date’s brother’s big, pimped-out muscle car.

The fact that I had such a great time was a huge testament to how far I had come socially. If I hadn’t been able to date, I know I would not have reached as many normal teen landmarks as I did. Keep in mind, however, that my dates were all chaste and innocent. I was far too young for anything more.

My senior year of high school passed with interminable slowness. One highlight was a day when Mark Abend called. After the usual greeting he asked, “Would you by any chance be interested in talking to a group of ICE agents about your time in bondage?”

Would I? “Yes!” I shouted. I didn’t even have to think about it. This was a chance for me to use my terrible experience for good. I definitely wanted to help in any way that I could.

On the appointed day Mark picked me up and we both spoke to a group of agents in Southern California. The event was held about an hour away. I wanted to make a difference, but I was so nervous about speaking that I thought I might be sick. Speaking in public is often listed as a person’s greatest fear, and I can see why. I wanted to do this, but I was so terrified that I had difficulty swallowing.

Once we began, though, I found my rhythm, and my anxiety eased—somewhat. Mark introduced me, and he began by asking me questions. The initial questions were easy and dealt with the facts of my captivity. Where was I born? When was I sold into slavery? How long was I held?

I answered with short responses at first but soon began expanding my answers. Halfway through I realized that the agents in the audience were listening intently to what I had to say. Once I realized that these people were like Mark, that every person who was listening to my words cared and wanted to be there so they could learn enough to help someone else, my passion for giving people information broke through.

Then the questions from the audience started, and most of them focused on my rescue and integration into life in the United States.

“How could we have made the rescue less stressful for you?” one asked.

“Why did you not trust the law enforcement team who rescued you?” asked another.

On and on and on. The questions came faster and faster. When I explained that I had been brainwashed for years and had thought that anything to do with the police would be far worse than life with my captors, I could see new understanding in the eyes of some of the people in the room. When I explained that my upbringing had led me to believe that my Muslim religion forbade me to speak to a man who was not a member of my immediate family, that an Arabic-speaking woman right there in the patrol car with me rather than on the phone would have made the rescue much less frightening, I saw pens and pencils begin to move on paper.

Speaking was scary for me, but it was empowering, too. And when Mark told me later that the team had made changes in how some of the rescues were going to be executed, based on the information I’d given, I was pumped. How else could I help? I asked. Mark smiled, and he lined up more speaking engagements for me.

•    •    •

During my senior year I began to have more trouble with my adoptive parents. The case against The Mom and The Dad had been settled before I’d been adopted, and the money I’d gotten from that was supposed to be for me. I had wanted to save the money for my college education, but once my new parents got their hands on the cash, it was soon gone.

At that point in time I did not understand about banks. I received a check from work several times a month, but I always cashed it. No one had explained to me how a bank worked. When the settlement came, a bank account was opened in my name, but my new mom and dad had full access to it.

There were ongoing financial problems within the family, and Steve’s car was repossessed. We got it back with my settlement money. When Patty’s car broke down, it was repaired with funds from my account. When new furniture arrived, I learned it had been paid for with my settlement.

I was furious. A few times my parents asked if they could use my funds as long as they paid me back, and at first I said yes. But then they must have begun dipping into the account without my knowledge, because after a while the entire $76,137 was gone. I was appalled. That had been
my
money, my future. I had suffered greatly for each cent and deserved every bit.

I did get a car out of it, a car I drive today. But the title was put in my new mom’s name because I was underage. I also got a computer, and enough money for a semester or two of community college. But a good deal of the money was spent on who knows what, and I have not yet been paid back any of the money Patty and Steve borrowed.

Money often tears people apart, and this situation definitely drove a wedge between my new family and me. Because they’d been at the sentencing hearing for The Mom and The Dad, they knew how much I had been awarded, and I will always wonder if that was part of their eagerness to adopt me. Unfortunately, I will never know for sure.

I do think that my adoptive dad had genuine warm feelings for me, but from my perspective my new mom behaved more as a big sister than as a mom. I never felt that she had any maternal feelings for me.

No matter the feelings, Steve, Patty, and I had a number of blowout fights over my settlement funds, fights that several times almost caused them to kick me out of the house, and fights that an equal number of times almost made me leave voluntarily. But I stayed because at that point I had nowhere else to go.

I couldn’t wait to graduate and move on with my life, but I first had another prom, a math test, and a hospital stay to get through.

For my senior prom I went with another guy friend. I had been dating another nice boy who’d been there for me emotionally. This boy had high morals and ethics, which is something that attracted me to him. But when it came time for our senior prom, he asked my dad if, after the prom, I could spend the night at his house. I believe that he asked in all innocence, but my dad (of course) said no. Then Steve forbade me to see the boy again. That’s how I ended up going to my senior prom with another guy who was just a good friend.

This time I wore my favorite color, purple. The dress was satin with a big, puffy knee-length skirt. The icing on the cake for me was my shiny purple shoes and matching nails. Both of my prom dresses were light-years from the hand-me-down clothes I had worn when I’d been in captivity. Each dress made me feel like a princess. A few short years before this, I could never have dreamed that I could wear something so beautiful.

This prom was held in a huge mansion in Palm Springs. The best thing about that prom was the amazing buffet. It seemed as if the tables stretched out forever. Because this was our senior prom and my classmates and I were nearing the end of an era, it was not couple based. Instead bunches of friends grouped together, and I had a blast. We had agreed ahead of time that I would arrive at the prom with my date, but my dad would pick me up after it was over while my date went out to party with his friends.

Prom took up a lot of my attention, but like many other seniors I was also focused on passing all of my finals, including math. Through the years I had done well in PE and in subjects such as social studies and history. In fact, every time I saw a photo from the past, I wanted to learn more about it. My natural curiosity helped me there, but not in English and math. Those two subjects continued to be my downfall.

Through my daily use of the English language and the remedial English classes that I took, I was getting by in that subject, but I often received near-failing grades in math. My lack of knowledge in this subject is a sad fact of my time in bondage. When I should have been learning my numbers—and learning how to add and subtract them—I was instead cleaning toilets and washing my captors’ clothes.

After taking my final exams, I was fairly certain I had passed all of them, with the exception of math. That subject I wasn’t sure about. Even though, emotionally, I was done with school and the last thing I wanted was to have to sit through a summer math course, I knew I would take the class—and pass it—if I needed to.

It was a stressful time for me because if I didn’t pass the test, I would not get to graduate. If I didn’t graduate, I could not go to college or become a police officer or ICE agent. A high school diploma was my gateway to the life I wanted to live, and graduation was a must.

Another reason graduation was important to me was because I had felt helpless for many years because I’d not been able to communicate with anyone. I’d also spent many years in a position where I’d had no options. I never wanted to be in either of those places again. Ever. Early on after my rescue I realized that paying attention to my studies was my best option. I had tried my best. But had I succeeded?