The Disappearance of Security

At first I thought about her every day, every second. She crowded my worst nightmares and clouded my daydreams. I Googled her name several times a day hoping to see a positive update in her disappearance and news that she had returned home. However, as time aged and as her whereabouts got more confusing, she began to fade from my daily monitoring, but not from my thoughts. I had never met her, never came across the people who loved her, but little by little, Phoenix’s story merged into my own – a young, Black woman from the St. Louis suburbs who loved hard and trusted easily.

When I was 17, my mom and I assisted with printing and distributing her missing posters for a mutual friend. Although my mom didn’t know Phoenix or her family personally, she looked at me through the eyes of her parents; imagining how easily Phoenix’s story could become my own. Despite her being six years older than me when she disappeared, we were both vulnerable to the same fate at every age.

At 19, I was working out at my favorite local park, tucked between a lake and sports field, when a man asked me for directions although there were groups of people who had passed by him before me. When I mumbled a response and glanced at him, he threw a chilling smile my way while waving a map before delivering a line that I will never forget: “If you would just come over to my car beautiful, I can show you where I need to go and maybe you can help me out.”

Sprinting like I was back on the track team, I made it to my car in record time and locked the doors. Even as I prepared to pull away from the parking spot, I could see him in the distance watching me, waiting for me to make the wrong move. I took the longest route home, constantly checking to make sure that I wasn’t being followed, like Phoenix might have been.

At 24, my friends and I were enjoying our final day in Toronto when two strangers joined us on the elevator. A man attempted to continuously flirt with my friend despite her gentle brush off. A woman aggressively came to my friend’s aid saying that, “women are bombarded enough without the interference of men who can’t accept no.” Both of them laughed and we quickly established their familiar relationship, a common trick for traffickers. While two of our other friends tried to find our Uber, they invited my friend and I to a “private party” they were hosting and asked us where we were from and where we were staying despite us giving them one-word responses until the Uber came right in time for us to hop in and escape.

While safely tucked into the Uber, my mind wandered to Phoenix, not thinking of the immediate danger that surrounded my current situation. Did Phoenix experience the same terror that I felt in that moment? Was she somewhere in the world closing her eyes tightly while wishing for safety? Wishing to return home? My entire body went cold at the thought of where she could be, who she could be trying to escape.

During college I was assaulted at campus parties and school-sponsored events. I’ve been followed from my home to the bus stop. I’ve been asked to do strange requests by strangers online or when I’m out in public. With time, the stories only continue, the vulnerability deepening with each one. Despite learning to be physically prepared for these situations, my mind is never ready for the trauma.

It’s been nearly 10 years, but Phoenix’s story only feels closer to mine. We’ve both been exposed to so much beauty, but the dark underbelly of the world has threatened us, shaken our sense of security. Although her disappearance remains unsolved, I hope that her story continues in the light where so many women like us don’t get to be.