Sindy and I will, at times, empty bar trash into a dumpster behind the bars. These dumpsters are in a nook behind the building and opened onto a path which leads to the docks and has a view of the ocean. It feels secluded and doesn’t appear to have any cameras. No one can physically listen in on our conversations without us seeing them. It is a beautiful spot and we sometimes sit for a bit and talk. Somehow, just seeing the ocean, I feel more free and relaxed.

One day, behind the dumpster, after one of the girls was raped in front of us on a pool table, I told Sindy that I could not believe we lived like this. I had wanted to stop them, or do something to intervene, but I knew there was nothing I could do.
Unexpectedly, Sindy said, “You need to stop being so shocked. Our lives here are not that bad. My life here is much better than what it was before. I worked two shit jobs for 60 hours a week at min wage. I struggled every day to pay the bills. I’ve been bullied and pushed around just as much at those jobs as I am here. I’ve seen women raped for far less in public spaces. What does it matter if we’re slaves here on this paradise island or slaves working for McDonald's and Starbucks. I’d rather be here and not have to pay bills on top of all the other things that still happen to us out there.”
Then she said, “Listen, don’t screw anything up for us. A lot of women in the world have it much worse that we do.”
I did not know what to say. I was a bit shocked. I had assumed she might be unhappy here like the rest of us. I started to question a lot of things. Are the others unhappy here? or Is it just my assumption. We all have different experiences. Afterwards, I wondered if she said it because someone might be listening or because she really did have a better life here. Regardless of why she said it, I thought about what she had said. Of course, many people would love to have a job like this. So what, if we are enslaved on a tropical island, we do live rather well. There’s plenty of healthy food, we have a dry place to sleep. Does it matter that much, that we have to do little dances around these men and tolerate their abuse. Women are abused in every work environment in ever part of the world, and too often go home to more abuse.
Some of the slaves seem to enjoy the attention of these men. So sure of themselves. So simple. Sindy’s words made me reevaluate everything I have been thinking about this place. It explained why Sindy was always so care free with the men. She enjoys her life here as best she can. She’s also very good at manipulating them.
Still, something in me cannot let go. We were taken from our lives and forced to be servants and play toys of incredibly rich, selfish men. I know it is the same in Chicago, NYC, LA, or any other city in the world. What we do here is not any different, we just don’t get paid for it here. It is not even the lack of pay, it is the freedom to choose for ourselves.
I have started to wonder if being paid to do work is really a measure of freedom. In the city, I worked under similar stresses for a tiny apt and unhealthy food. I was ogled, groped, heckled and yelled at on the streets of Chicago walking home every day. I would walk extra miles just to avoid intersections and areas where men congregated. I was groped and rubbed on while riding trains and buses. I was always stressed about paying the bills and paying off my student loans, which I HAD to take to get an education. An education which did not help in the type of work I ended up in as a career. The only thing we need from higher education is the piece of paper that entitles us to work for a higher wage in a stable job. It shows that we can go into debt and jump through the hoops of the education system regardless of the bullshit we face.
The debt from college is the first step to enslavement for all of us. From then on it’s more debt for cars or housing or children. Everything we do requires more money than we can afford to pay.
I could never afford a vacation like this. My free time was spent watching television or cleaning my own place. On occasion, I went to a bar or out to dinner with friends, but this was also very expensive.
Sindy’s comments made me feel like my suffering was out of place. I feel like I should try to fit in better. Try to enjoy being raped by these men. I became more determined to make the best of it. I know we all do.
It also opened my mind to the suffering we face in any civilized society. We are not free in a market economy. We are trapped by economic forces and forced into laboring for others whom we don’t respect or admire. People who treat us like slaves rather than fellow humans. We are kept at the edge of homelessness, always fearful of losing what little we have.
Life in a market economy may be a different kind of slavery, but it’s still slavery.