A Business That Helps Prostitutes Bloom In Recovery For prostitutes looking to get drug free and off the streets, a program in Nashville, Tenn., provides a model for healing. They work at a company called Thistle Farms making lotions, balms and paper. Their emblem is a flowering thistle, whose ability to survive matches their own.
NPR logo

A Business That Helps Prostitutes Bloom In Recovery

  • Download
  • <iframe src="https://www.npr.org/player/embed/135702451/135760866" width="100%" height="290" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" title="NPR embedded audio player">
  • Transcript
A Business That Helps Prostitutes Bloom In Recovery

A Business That Helps Prostitutes Bloom In Recovery

  • Download
  • <iframe src="https://www.npr.org/player/embed/135702451/135760866" width="100%" height="290" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" title="NPR embedded audio player">
  • Transcript


We've been looking, this week, at breaking the cycle of prostitution in Nashville, Tennessee. The Magdalene Program is considered a model for healing. Magdalene puts its emphasis on housing, therapy, and the self-sustaining small business that allows the women to make money and gain respect. That business is called Thistle Farms. NPR's Jacki Lyden spent several weeks with the women and has this story.

JACKI LYDEN: When you open the door at Thistle Farms and ask a woman about becoming a prostitute, you hear about a world of pain.

NINA PHILLIPS: My name is Nina Phillips, and I prostituted for the first time at the age of about 13. I thought that making the quick money...

DORIS WALKER: My name is Doris, Doris Walker, and I'd be walking down the street in the middle of the night trying to pick up tricks and it would be midnight...

TARA: My name is Tara. My mom left me when I was five. I moved to Nashville when I was 17 and I started stripping at the Classic Cat with a fake ID. I met this guy that was a pimp...

VALERIE WILLIAMS: My name is Valerie Williams. A day in hell for me was basically a five to six day high, no sleep...

PENNY HALL: My name is Penny. I am 47 years old. I have three boys, they're all grown. My family disowned me, and I started living on the streets up under a bridge and that's what I called home for about 10 years.

LYDEN: Penny Hall. Photographer Stephen Alvarez and I would walk with her to that bridge, but first we wanted to spend some time at Thistle Farms.

HALL: And I never thought I'd be at a place making healing oil.

LYDEN: Products intended to heal others, heal these women.


HALL: You mix it up.

LYDEN: Mixing the oil in an industrial blender, bottles then get wrapped in a special paper made from thistle. Penny says it's her emblem.

HALL: It's like a rough weed, like we are, when we were out on the streets we was rough and tough, went through hell and back, and you know, got into situations. And we just survived through the cold, the drought like the thistle does. It don't need no water. It comes up out of the concrete transforms, there, into a beautiful flower.

AMY HAILEY: This is made with love. Yeah, can you feel it?

LYDEN: That's her friend, Amy Hailey, helping her make the rough brown paper. Penny's life before Thistle Farms was hopeless. And then one day she just couldn't live under a bridge any longer.

HALL: I woke up. And I guess something musta hit that morning. I said this has got to go. I took a good hard look at my life and I said I'm never going to have nothing as long as I stay here.

LYDEN: She turned to her buddies under the bridge - they called themselves the Alley Cats.

HALL: I got up and I told them bye. The people said what do you mean bye? I said I ain't coming back. They said yeah, you'll be back, you always come back. I said well this time it's different.

LYDEN: Penny took a break from making her lotions and balms at Thistle Farms and took us to the bridge - just a highway overpass. The homeless campsite, still there, is pure misery, filth and despair.

HALL: We had mattresses and blankets, you know, out here, so that was your bed at night. There was somebody over there on their bed. We had one going this way, we put all the food over there, cause there's rats.

LYDEN: It's the freezing cold in winter, and baking hot in summer.

HALL: Yep, that's basically - yes ma'am. I mean, and the mosquitoes are so bad in the summertime it's unreal. We just get - you can't even sit nowhere without being bit all up, you'd have to cover up and sweat to death.

LYDEN: The founder of the Magdalene Program and Thistle Farms is Becca Stevens, an Episcopal priest. She started Magdalene in the late '90's, dreaming of a refuge that would change womens' lives. Over the next 15 years, she raised $12 million in private funds. To her, Magdalene - which has graduated over 150 women from its program - lives out an ideal of what love can do.

BECCA STEVENS: What we offer women is two years, never pay anything to live there with no authority in the house so that people can really form community and bonds. And I think that's life-changing.

LYDEN: And she wanted to start a business that would change their lives giving them skills and income.

STEVENS: And we named it Thistle Farms because thistles were the noxious weed you could find when you started going out to Dickerson Road and places where the women walk. You know, it grows in the places that are abandoned and kind of forgotten, and it has a history of survival by brutality. But it also has this little, deep purple center.

LYDEN: The idea came to her: sell body balms, healing products, make paper from the thistle flower. To her, a half-dead field of thistle is a field of gold. Prostitution, Stevens says, demands a horrible powerlessness most people don't see.

STEVENS: It is unsafe, and it's illegal, and it's harmful and it is violent for a lot of people over the years. And that's what - I think some of those stories are the ones that, you know, you don't get passed or they're pretty heartbreaking.

LYDEN: Yeah, sex that takes a toll.

STEVENS: Yes, like horrible things where women have been - I have been with women who have been stabbed, you know, in the act of sex. And I have presided at funerals where women were shot, execution style, you know, in a cab of a truck having sex. I've been with women who have been thrown in the river after having sex. Some of those things you think: my God.

LYDEN: It's a grace that the women in Magdalene are unlikely to wind up that way. It's quite possible that could have happened to Penny Hall, who says she could only perform sex acts if she was high. She's going to hold on to Magdalene.

HALL: What I'd do is when I think about situations like that, I play the tape out. If I walk away, leave where I'm at, where is it going to take me to? Back under that bridge? No. I don't want to go back.

LYDEN: Her mother, who used to take her to the bar she owned, wasn't a role model, but in the end, Penny's made good with her family.

HALL: My mother, she's passed away now. She'd be so proud. My family, they love me. They wouldn't used to let me in their house, because they was scared I was going to steal. Today they give me the key, and leave me there.

LYDEN: Penny pauses to wipe her eyes.

HALL: And I just don't want to go back out there and live and have to turn a trick wondering if I'm going to wake up in the morning without being beat up or raped or going to jail. Sorry I'm a cry baby.

LYDEN: Jacki Lyden, NPR News.

WALKER: (Singing) Magdalene came into my life. I have no worries, I have no strife.

INSKEEP: That's Doris Walker singing a song she wrote about Magdalene. Our series Nashville: Up From Prostitution was photographed by Stephen Alvarez, and you can see his photos and video at npr.org.

WALKER: (Singing) ...all those charities, donations coming from everywhere. Oh, God bless us all through the air. God, take me to Magdalene...

INSKEEP: This is NPR News.

Copyright © 2011 NPR. All rights reserved. Visit our website terms of use and permissions pages at www.npr.org for further information.

NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by Verb8tm, Inc., an NPR contractor, and produced using a proprietary transcription process developed with NPR. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.