Electricity reverberates in the air. We, the lepers, ascend from underground stations to the municipal court of 314 West 54th Street. They will hear us. Side-by-side, arms linked together. We march to the building where too many of us have been detained for a supposed crime of our own doing. A court that sees us as “victims” but treats us like criminals, a justice system that punishes our labor and a society that demonizes us. Tension hangs all around, like the gallows that are inside of the building—waiting to strip our humanity away—if they even recognize us as human. We pull out our signs. We will make ourselves known now. One woman’s sign reads: “Arrests only save police budgets”.

Her eyes are hollow as if death has encountered her too often in her life. I think Maribella is her name, maybe she went to school with me. Someone pulls out a bull horn, calling for everyone to make some noise, that we will not be ignored.

They then chant, “Putas Pero Organizadas” and right after “Whores But Organized”. We, the crowd, shout it back towards the building, as the doors begin to open. Officers with machine guns start to form around the entrance. The air grows heavy and galvanic, something is going to happen. The officers yell at us to leave, that they could arrest us for trespassing. We chant back, “This is public property, we are here for our people!” The person with the bull horn says, “If anyone has anything to say, say it now and loud! Come up and I’ll hand the horn over to you.”

My heart beats in a frenzy, as I weave through the crowd, my sign in hand, taking the bullhorn. I look directly in the eyes of an officer, the one that knows me all too well.

“My name is Estrella Rodriguez. I am the daughter of a Jamaican immigrant woman, who worked as a nanny for my whole life. Taking care of rich children so I could have a better life in this country. My father is a Puerto Rican man who worked as a custodian for fifteen years at a private school so I could have the best education. I did not come from any wealth, I came from parents who wanted their children to live a life they loved. I went to Columbia University, an education that would change not only my life but my family’s. I was freshly eighteen when I went into my first semester, working in my education and damn near full-time as a waitress. My parents could not afford to help me pay, they had my siblings to worry about. They gave me their love and encouragement but I was on my own. Being a journalism major wasn’t cheap, and the more I worked as a waitress the more my grades started to slip. I had to turn to sex work. If anyone has a story similar to mine, please raise your hands.”

A wave of palms sprouted, scraping the sky above. My breath caught, as my voice turned shaky.

“It started as working in a strip club, but after that became too much to bear I became an escort. Men would come, treat me fabulously, pay for sex which only lasted for about five minutes, and would end up talking for the rest of the session. I would hold these men, as they would cry and express themselves in front of me. This was more than sex, this was intimacy. The intimacy that is not socially approved for me to express, just like it not being socially approved for me to use my body to make money. My sex work is work. The emotional, mental, physical, spiritual labor of my job and the fear of stigma and imprisonment were always on my mind. I know I am not who you expect me to be. A smart Ivy League girl, who is a woman of color and pansexual. The odds are against me on that. But an Ivy League girl who is a sex worker, people can’t seem to wrap their minds around that. I am dynamic, I have both my brain and body to guide me through this world. These two parts of my identity or any parts, are not mutually exclusive!”

Suddenly, the sky turns dark. A torrent of water falls from above, in big, fat droplets. The petrichor is released from the steamy earth. A sea of red umbrellas materializing like pristine poppies proliferating in Paris. A man from the crowd walks over, shielding me from the rain with his umbrella that we now share. I smile, this red umbrella being our symbol as sex workers, to be one another’s allies when no one would support us. We are strong individuals but everlasting as a community.

I whisper, “Thank you”, to the man and I bring the horn back to my lips.

“We stand here now to protest for the rights we deserve to have. The right to a safe work environment, the right to not be arrested by law enforcement, the right to seek out help and aid without fear of being charged with a crime. I am a part of Decrim NY, a group dedicated to ending discrimination of sex workers. Our goal at the moment is to pass Senate Bill S6419, also known as Stop Violence in the Sex Trades Act. This bill amends the current law of prostitution and sex work between consenting adults in New York City, which is effectively changing the state of sex work in this country. My experiences of sex work have changed my life, I was able to pay off all my tuition bill, afford ever-increasing rent, and the ability to make my hours. Instead of being a slave to the banks, I was able to escort for my college experience and be free. I now write as a freelance journalist and writer in support of sex workers. Issues like LGBT, race, class, HIV status and so much more influence how we as sex workers move through this world. To the courts, see and hear us. We are your daughters, sons, friends, partners, fellow humans. To those in prison because of sex work, we support you and advocate for your rights. To the country, we are here. We will not leave. We are you. The more prevalent sex work becomes in the national consciousness, we will be here. Be on the right side of history for workers’ rights. To my last point, the relationships that sex workers have with their families if they have families, changes. My parents found out I did sex work after I graduated from college. Currently, my parents have come around to understanding my work.”

The crowd cheers and I give a small smile before I drop the bomb. Tears well up in my eyes, as my voice trembles with the next sentence.

“My big brother, whom I love dearly, the person who accepted me the most, did not understand. He stands before me, today, as an officer who is against sex workers, but now me. Abel, I know you hear me. I know you see me. It’s your baby sister. I am the same person, I am no less of Estrella than I was before I told you. I love you. I hope you’ll love me again. We, sex workers, are changing the course of history, everyone.”

I raise my sign in front of my chest that says, “Sex Work is a Regular Ass Job”.

“My sign sums up our work. We are not sinners nor saints, we are simply human. We have problems with our jobs, but there are also times where we are proud of our work. We wear our scarlet collars, like those in society wear their blue or white ones. This is our baptism of coming into the public eye, our red umbrellas are our coat of arms. We are not who the world expects, we are not ashamed of who we are. Thank you.”

The audience erupts in cheers, as I hand the bull horn to another speaker. The emotions overtake me, as tears drip down my face mimicking the rainfall. The man with the red umbrella sees my sorrow. He gives me a knowing look, and I just hug him. I don’t know him, but I know that we are a family. This life is not easy, change is never easy. Walking through the crowd, I stare back at Abel. I catch his eyes, but he looks away, turning his back on me. I hope one day we’ll be together again. At that moment, the rain lets up. A rainbow takes its place in the sky, as I wipe my tears. I stand with my brothers and sisters, waving our signs to make our mark on this moment in time. We will be heard. We will be seen. We will have rights.