Hidden Girl_The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave

by Shyima Hall

  I was on the high school track team for a short time too, but it was too hard on my joints. And the constant practices took up much of my time that otherwise would have been spent doing homework. With the exception of math and English, I had mostly caught up, but it took me much longer than most other students to finish my assignments.

  While I was waiting not-so-patiently for the day when I could take my citizenship test, I jumped at the chance during my junior year of high school to join the local police department as a volunteer in their Police Explorer Program. This program is open to young people ages fourteen to twenty-one who have completed at least the eighth grade. Explorers had to go through a rigorous application process and maintain at least a C average in their school studies.

  Since the day I’d been rescued, I had wanted a career in law enforcement, and this was a great opportunity for me to get my foot in the door. But while the opportunity was there, it didn’t automatically mean that I would be approved for duty. There was a lot to the application process, which was set up to prepare candidates for the similar experience of becoming a police officer.

  To start, I had to not only fill out a mountain of paperwork and get fingerprinted, but I also had to meet with a detective who served as an adviser to the program. He, or someone in his department, then did a background check on me. After that I had to meet with a corporal in the department, and after that, the chief of police. That meeting was pretty intimidating for me. I was scared to death. A few short years before, I’d been terrified of anyone involved in law enforcement. Now here I was meeting with the chief of police! But the chief turned out to be a nice man, and he spent most of our time together asking about my personal and education goals. He even went so far as to give me some advice on area colleges. I liked him and couldn’t wait to begin.

  There were about ten of us in my junior group, and we were one of the first groups to go through the program. I was thrilled on the day that I received my uniform, which consisted of black dress pants, a light blue long-sleeved shirt with black epaulets, and several official patches sewn onto the sleeves. A black tie and belt, and pins on the points of my collar completed the uniform. I was asked to wear my long, dark hair pulled back into a bun, and when I looked at the picture the department had taken for their files, I have to say that I looked every inch the junior officer that I was.

  But before I was 100 percent official, I had to pass a test. I had to wait thirty days before I could take it, because the people who set up the program wisely understood that Explorers needed to have some on-the-job experience first. There were roughly thirty questions on the test, and I did fine, even though almost everyone in my group, including me, got the last—and most important—question wrong. The question was something to the effect of, “When should an Explorer use the police radio?” For the life of me I could not think of the answer to that, even though I knew we had gone over it several times. The correct response, by the way, was “Only in an emergency, or when instructed by an officer.”

  During training the other Explorers and I attended an intense weeklong summer program at the sheriff’s academy in Riverside, California. After the other Explorers in my group and I arrived, the kids from different towns were divided into groups, and I ended up being the only person from my local area in my group. Each group stayed in a cabin, and we had to take turns staying up at night to “guard” the cabin and our fellow Explorers. I learned a lot about law enforcement and legal procedures while I was there. We also spent time doing police drills and running, just as real police officers would. And even though Explorers are unarmed, we got to go through gun training. I learned about different kinds of weapons, how to clean them, and even spent some time target shooting.

  The training was rigorous and intense, and several people dropped out. None of us from my town even dared think about that, though. Even though it was a tough week, we knew we’d get much worse from our local supervisors if we didn’t complete the course. Plus, we had such a sense of pride that we didn’t want to let anyone at our police department down. And we didn’t!

  After we returned home, the real fun began. I got to work directly with officers when they were on the job. During my shift I might ride with an officer and handle paperwork such as a request to tow a vehicle. Or I might fill out the paperwork during a traffic stop for infractions such as speeding or failing to signal. And I was trained to relay information over the police radio—if an officer instructed me to.

  As a police Explorer I often went to public events such as our local cherry festival, bike race, or summer concert series. I would direct traffic, or I might join others to pick up trash, help out in our area’s food kitchen (which served meals to the needy), or run errands for officers.

  Other times I filed police reports in the records division of the police department, and in the process I got to know almost every officer on the force, and most of the department’s support staff too. Being able to network with those in law enforcement was the best, and I learned a great deal about my chosen career path. It was an invaluable experience, and I stayed until I reached the age limit of twenty-one.

  Even then I couldn’t get enough. I stayed on another year doing volunteer patrol. This is a program where citizens (mostly retired) drive their own cars around town and call in any suspicious activity. I felt proud whenever I put that VOLUNTEER sign on my car, because I knew I was helping the department.

  • • •

  During my junior year of high school, and while I was adjusting to my new role as a police Explorer, my new mom arranged for a local newspaper reporter to interview me. At the time I was not sure what Patty was thinking or why she set up the interview, but the result was that my story of enslavement and rescue was featured in the local paper. I have to say that as much as I hated the publicity, it helped my social life at school.

  Before the article was published, I had a small circle of friends, and a wider group of acquaintances who knew me as the girl with the accent, the girl with the funny name, or the girl in foster care. But once everyone read the story and learned about my past, one after another, people came up to me to talk. I met a lot of kids that way, and some of my teachers even looked at me with an odd expression that might have been admiration. That was my first experience with the power of the press, but it wasn’t my last.

  That same year I was featured in Reader’s Digest. I didn’t want to do that interview either. But Patty set the interview up and encouraged me to do it. “By sharing your story you will help other people,” she said.

  I didn’t dispute that, but I was a junior in high school. I had missed such a big portion of my childhood that I wanted to savor the lone year that I had left before graduation. I wanted to be a kid. For the first time in a long time, I was happy. I didn’t want to be brought back into my past. I needed to focus on the present and on my future, and the interviews kept me from doing that. Yes, I wanted to help others and knew that I would spend the rest of my life doing that. I just wanted to grow up first.

  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 fr
om 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.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  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 m
e. 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.