Facing Forward: Black Resilience in the Fight Against Human Trafficking

By: Oree Freeman, National Speaker

Black History Month is a time of reflection, celebration, and reckoning. It honors the past while forging ahead with the knowledge that our fight is far from over. It reminds me of the shoulders upon which I stand—the Black women who paved the way for me to walk into rooms where my voice is a sound of freedom. 

My success today is not measured in material things but in the ability to step into spaces where my voice can be used to bring change. The truth is, there were many Black women in the movement against human trafficking who never had the spotlight that many of us do today. As much as trafficking is a social justice issue, it is also a racial justice issue—one that has left countless women criminalized, unseen, disregarded, and abandoned because of their melanated skin. 

And while conversations about minorities and the disproportionate rates of Black individuals being trafficked are increasing, what is often left unspoken is how buyers and exploiters use race against victims—solidifying what society sometimes portrays as the standard of quality and value, reducing human beings to a price tag and allowing the highest or lowest bidder to determine our worth. 

It has taken Black women so much to fight for space in this movement. The younger generation of lived experience experts stands on the backs of those who came before us. Even the language we use—"lived experience"—was not where we started. We have transitioned and transcended past being labeled as just "victims," and we are more than survivors. Today, we are recognized as lived experience experts, amplifying our voices to show that we are not one-dimensional. We are doctors, lawyers, advocates, executives, abolitionists, mothers, and friends. I am here today because of women like Vednita Carter, Marian Hatcher, Audrey Morrissey, Leah Thigpen, Maui Chacon, Nola Brantley, Rachel Thomas, Shamere Makenzie, Sawan Vaden, Sara Kruzan, Cyntoia Brown, Courtney Baldwin, Tika Thornton, Kristina Fitz. 

My experience started within the school-to-prison pipeline, where Black girls were being funneled into mass incarceration for crimes that should have resulted in intervention and outside resources. Instead, these experiences led to our victimization, our sexualization, and our invisibility as victims. The last time I sat in a real classroom before graduating college with my second degree was in the fifth grade—the same time my exploitation began. So, when we talk about Black resilience, let's talk about what it means to navigate broken systems and teach ourselves how to read, write, and think critically when the world has already decided we don't belong. Let's talk about surviving despite being denied access to education, resources, and protection. 

The way I fought to survive and the way I learned how to access resources despite every obstacle placed in my way are why I know I cannot be placed in a box of just a survivor. Today, I sit in a graduate program, often the only Black survivor in the room. And even now, there are challenges I fight—internally and externally—daily. But words cannot express the gratitude I have for the Black women who fought before me, the women who, despite their tragic circumstances, ensured that we would have a chance to stand where we are today. 

This month, I want to honor Black resilience—not just by recognizing the obstacles we have overcome, but by amplifying the voices of Black lived experience experts who have been doing this work for years.

My biological mother was boxed in—literally. Nine months pregnant, locked inside a cell with nowhere to run, she placed her hands over her belly—protecting not only her own life but mine. She looked down and whispered, "Hold on, baby girl, I'm not going to let them box us in," as she prepared to fight. My mother was tough. They called her "Ruthless Ruthy"—sweet, empathetic, yet strong enough to command attention, even through the haze of a lit cigarette. She had her own Black experience, her pain, her trauma. We come from a lineage marked by systemic oppression, poverty, sexual abuse, and exploitation. She has lived in a box for most of her life, which is why she says that when she dies, she doesn't want to be buried in one. Sometimes, freedom is so close yet still out of reach. And yet, she has always been a survivor. 

On May 16, 1995, I was born at Chowchilla State Prison with nothing but a booking number tied to my ankle—no name. Two days later, I was placed in another box shipped to my new adoptive Black single mama. 

This Black box is more than just a metaphor. It represents how society places us in boxes, how we sometimes put ourselves in them, and how we fight to break free—refusing to let a lid be placed on our capabilities, dreams, and futures. I could name so many Black women who embody resilience. Above all, I want to emphasize that being a Black woman is not one-dimensional. 

I am not just a Black woman who was trafficked. 

I am not just a Black survivor who has endured systemic oppression. 

I am not just from a Black lineage marked by generational trauma and exploitation. I refuse to be defined solely by pain. 

I am a Black woman who sees, who feels, who has spent over 7,000 hours in therapy—not just for myself, but for my 6-year-old daughter. 

I am a Black woman who gave it all up to serve others. 

I am the first Black sister in my family to graduate, a first-generation college student. I am a Black woman who has served and impacted over 75,000 individuals. 

I am a Black woman who chooses daily to be anchored in Christ, to love and serve better, and to keep my ego in check. 

And yet, the fight is not over. As we move forward, we must ensure that Black survivors are recognized not just for their trauma but also for their expertise and leadership. We must challenge the systems that criminalize victims instead of protecting them. We must address the racialized demand that fuels trafficking and hold exploiters accountable. We must shift the conversation from criminalization to protection, prevention, and empowerment. Because Black women are not one-dimensional. 

We are not just survivors. 

We are trailblazers. 

We are change-makers. 

We deserve to be entirely free.

If you think you know someone who is a victim of human trafficking, reach out to your local police or call the National Human Trafficking Hotline (888-373-7888).

If you are inspired by Oree's story, follow her on Instagram.

We are grateful to Oree for sharing her story, expertise, and invaluable insights. Oree was compensated for her time, and we encourage others to recognize and compensate survivors for their lived experience and professional contributions. Survivor leadership is key to creating effective, informed, and survivor-centered solutions.