Jose Alfaro is a lived experience expert and dedicated activist. He’s on the Board of Directors of the Human Trafficking Legal Center and is a member of the U.S. Advisory Council on Human Trafficking, which advises the White House on human trafficking policy. He has been featured in Rolling Stone, NPR, and Boston Globe.
We had the honor of welcoming Jose to the stage at our Make it Possible event on December 10th, 2024 at the Denver Space Gallery. He shared his message of love, inclusion, and empathy as a way to prevent human trafficking. Read Jose’s story below, in his own words.
What if I told you that you could prevent someone from being trafficked by simply being kind? Sounds easy, right? The reality is that the majority of individuals who become vulnerable to crimes like human trafficking due to prejudice, discrimination, and hatred. Hated because of the color of their skin, hated because of their gender, and hated because of their sexuality. It’s the systems that fail these people and make them invisible. It’s our communities that have hatred for specific people, and it’s even our own families who abandon and reject their family members.
I grew up in a small, conservative, religious town called Navasota in Texas. I grew up in a home where there was a lot of domestic violence. We were poor. The one thing that seemed to follow me as I got older was this feeling that something was wrong with me—for simply being my authentic self.
I constantly had my father looking after me, correcting me, telling me, “Stop that. Boys don’t act that way.” Being in school and being told by other boys, “Why do you act like a little girl? Why are you such a sissy? You’re a wuss.” It followed me as I grew older and began exploring my sexuality. I heard the church say that being gay is an abomination. I heard my friends say awful things about gay people. So, I knew I wouldn’t be accepted if I exposed myself and told anyone what I was experiencing.
I went into my shell and kept it a secret. When I was 15 years old, I met a college student in his twenties. I thought I was in love while at the same time telling him, “We’re only friends. I’m not gay.” That shame and fear kept me from being able to be who I was and seek the proper support and knowledge as I was exploring.
It wasn’t long until my family started to recognize that I was constantly on my phone. I’m sure you all know teenagers, and when they’re on their phones, they’re not part of the family. That was me. I was constantly on my phone chatting it up. One day, my father went through my phone, and I knew my world was about to crumble. He called me into his room and asked me the question I had been struggling with. He said, “Are you gay?” The first thing I said was, “Of course not. No, that’s not who I am.” He said, “I’m only gonna ask you one more time.” I thought hard and long about it and said, “No, I’m not. I promise you.”
My father didn’t take that as the right answer, and he physically assaulted me. I was knocked out, got back up off the floor, and dialed 911. When law enforcement arrived, they separated us, did their protocol. I was asked to leave my home and packed a bag. That, again, made me feel as though I was always going to be the perpetrator to those around me simply for being who I was, and that my father—the person who physically assaulted me—was the victim. I felt as though I would never be protected and would always be discriminated against for who I was.
When I returned the next day, my father asked me, “Son, how are we gonna fix you? Because this isn’t okay.” I thought about that question and didn’t know how to answer. Like any 16-year-old, I said, “How about you move me somewhere new? I’ll start all over, and I promise you I will be the man that you need me to be. I promise I will change.” My father moved me four hours away to San Antonio, Texas, to live with a family member.
Suddenly, I was isolated. I had no friends. I didn’t know the city or town I was living in. I was terrified to start at a new school—a much larger school than the small town I came from. I went online. This was the time of AOL dial-up. I was on Yahoo Messenger, MySpace, and Facebook had just come out.
I went online trying to form community, and I met a man in his thirties. The one thing I wanted was to be accepted and feel special, and he made me feel that way. I met up with him, and he sexually assaulted me. On the way home, he called me and said, “I just want you to know that I think you’re a really great kid, and I would love the opportunity to hang out with you again.” As much pain and fear as I had, hearing somebody say that to me felt incredible. So I put my feelings aside and decided to continue hanging out with him. I thought I was in love, like any teenager would feel, especially when they’ve been rejected by their own family.
After the semester ended, I went back home for the summer. My father came up to me and confronted me. He said, “It worked. You’ve changed.” If only he knew. But I said, “Dad, I’m sorry, but no, I haven’t changed. This is who I am, and you’re gonna have to accept who I am because I’m your son.” That’s what I thought parents were supposed to do. My father began to cry and said, “I will not have a gay son living under my roof. So either you are going to go to conversion therapy, or I want you out of my home.”
I didn’t know what to do. So I packed a bag and went to a friend’s place. My friend told me, “I don’t know if you’re gonna be able to stay longer than a night,” because she was female and didn’t think her dad would approve of it. I said, “Don’t worry about it. I will figure it out.” I was desperate and afraid. I didn’t know who to turn to. I knew I couldn’t go to law enforcement because of the experiences I already had.
I started a conversation online with a man named Jason Gandy. Jason was attractive and seemed friendly. The first thing he asked me was, “How’s your day going?” At 16 years old, I spilled my entire life story. I was looking for answers, support, and direction. He started talking about how he had friends who experienced the same thing I was going through. He had sympathy for me.
Then he started telling me about this life I had never experienced: wealth. He told me he sold a pressure washer business at 15 and had over a million dollars in profit. He told me he owned a nine-bedroom house in Austin, Texas. Growing up poor, hearing that someone had a nine-bedroom house—oh my gosh, this was a castle. He told me that if I ever wanted to, he had the means to put me in private school if education was important to me. It was.
I contemplated for hours, questioning him and talking to him. I thought about my options, but I had none. I didn’t know where to go or who to turn to. So I said, “I will go with you if you can come and pick me up at this local gas station.” I know—red flag—but it’s what I felt I had to do. I got in the backseat of the car, and he drove us to Houston, Texas, where he said he was staying for a few months on business. I went to his condo, and everything seemed normal.
Jason was nice to me, treated me well, took me to nice dinners, and showed me the gay community in Houston. Coming from a small town and never meeting another gay person, seeing an entire community of people felt cool. It felt like I had somewhere to belong. It didn’t take long until he said, “Look, one day you’re gonna want to live a life on your own.” My ears opened up. I wanted to support myself and be who I was without anybody telling me that I’m wrong. I asked, “How can I get there?”
He said, “I own a massage business, and you can work for me.” I kept thinking it would be a job as a receptionist. But Jason said, “No, I want you to work as a massage therapist.” I said, “I don’t know how to give a professional massage. I can’t do this.” He said, “That’s the easy part. The hard part is you’re under 18, and because of that, you could get into a lot of trouble.” Now I’m thinking, “Police have never really cared about me anyway. I could lie.” He said, “Exactly, you just need to lie. If anybody asks what your age is, tell them you’re 18 and training under me as an apprentice.” I thought, “Great idea. I’ll do that. That’s easy.”
What I didn’t know is that he had already set up the first massage without my knowledge and had taken the photo from my profile when we began chatting to solicit clients. The day after, he said, “We have our client.” I said, “Okay.” I entered the makeshift bedroom where there was a massage table and a naked man lying on the table. Behind me, the door was shut and locked. Jason began removing his clothing. I remember looking at him and thinking, “Why are you doing that? We’re just giving a massage.”
He just looked at me. He said, “Everything I do, you do as well.” He nodded. I removed my clothing and started thinking, “How am I gonna get out of this? Where am I gonna go? I can’t go to the police. I’m in a completely different city. I don’t even know where I am. If I leave this room, is the client gonna get off the massage table and harm me out of fear that I’ll tell people what he’s doing? Is Jason gonna stop me? Is he gonna lock me in a room?” Which, crazy enough, I already was. There was no way out. I was trapped.
In my mind, I told myself, “This isn’t so bad. I can do this as long as it means one day I’ll be free and live a life on my own.” That was my focus. As time went on, the massages became harsher. It got to a point where I wasn’t allowed to say what could happen to me and what couldn’t.
I had to find a way to escape. I made the decision to leave. We usually went to the gym twice daily to keep fit for the clients. I said, “I have a really bad headache. I don’t think I can go to the gym today.” I knew he had a burner phone in his dresser. He said, “Okay,” and went to the gym. When he left, I called my previous abuser because I knew at least he accepted me and cared about me when my parents didn’t.
I moved in with my previous abuser, and suddenly I experienced extreme symptoms of PTSD, anxiety, and depression. I lashed out. I was angry. I hated everybody. I no longer wanted to finish school (but I did—I got my diploma). I no longer wanted to live anymore. I enrolled in a homeless youth program, and not one person asked me, “Who are you living with? Why aren’t you with your family?”
What I wish had happened is that one person had just asked me, “What do you need?” Nobody did. I felt invisible. For over a decade, I felt everything that happened to me was my fault. I resorted to drugs and alcohol to cope, not realizing that’s what I was doing, but I knew I didn’t feel horrible when I drank. I continued my life, leading a life of sex work. I learned everything I needed to survive from my trafficker and put it to use. I created a world for myself where I felt I could make the rules, and nobody was in charge of me. I felt I could do this by myself, on my own. I did.
The guy I was living with at the time said, “Look, I want to offer you something—a place to stay with food on the table… under one condition.” All I could think was, “Boy, oh boy, what is that condition?” because I had heard it all. He said, “I want you to go back to school and get an education.” I hadn’t heard that one. I kept thinking, “No, there’s no way I’m going back to school and getting an education. This life is working for me. It’s easy. I make great money. I don’t have to do much. I love it.”
He said, “Well, then you can go back to Texas.” I thought, “I don’t want to go back to Texas. What if I go to cosmetology school?” He said, “Whatever kind of education you want to get, I will support you.” I went to cosmetology school and built a very successful life for myself. I worked New York Fashion Week, Boston Fashion Week, had a full clientele, and made great money.
Then, a friend visited me from Houston. He said, “I heard about what happened to you when you were a teenager, and I think it’d be a great idea for you to call this number at the bottom of this article.” I asked, “What are you talking about? How do you know what happened to me when I didn’t even know you at the time?” He said, “Just read the article.”
The article talked about Jason Gandy being caught as soon as his plane landed in London. At the bottom was the National Human Trafficking Hotline number, which said, “If you have any information, contact the hotline.” I turned and said, “If you tell anyone I was part of this, you have no clue what this will do to me. I’m gonna go to prison. I’m gonna be in a lot of trouble.”
He said, “I really don’t think that’s what’s gonna happen, but I’ll leave it with you. You choose what you think is best.” Thank God he brought me that article. I texted the hotline. I told them in a long text message everything that happened to me, hoping the text wouldn’t go through. It did, and I got a response. The response was, “Are you in a safe place? Are you okay? If so, it’s 3 a.m. Can we talk in the morning?” Absolutely.
The next morning, I got a call. They connected me to the Department of Homeland Security, which connected me to the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Houston, Texas. For the first time in my life, I put a title to what happened to me: human trafficking. For the first time in my life, I didn’t blame myself. It was time to undo all the harm done to me.
In 2012, Jason Gandy was arrested. In 2014, I called the National Human Trafficking Hotline. In 2018, three other male victims and I testified in the federal trial against Jason Gandy. Jason Gandy was sentenced to 30 years in prison with no chance of parole. I had a civil suit against him and a $1.43 million judgment. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the money, but it feels good to know he will owe me for the rest of his life.
A full-circle moment: I lived with my parents for the past few months. It has been a moment of growth and healing. Recently, my mother received a call because a 16-year-old girl went missing in our town. I’m listening to the call, feeling activated, thinking, “Why are they calling you? What are you gonna say?” My mom mutes the phone and asks, “What do I say?” I ask, “Is the young girl a lesbian?” My mom says, “I don’t think so, but I’ll ask.” The girl’s aunt says, “Yes, she is.”
I sat there and thought, “This is why this child left her home—because she’s not accepted.” I said, “Mom, tell her what you said to me recently. You said if you could go back in time, you would make this home a loving home. You would love me unconditionally. You wish you could take back all the harm done to me. Tell her that. Tell her because she needs to know her child deserves love and support. That is the only way you’re going to create safety.”
It has been an incredible journey. I’m thankful for where I am. One thing I will always remember is the simple message that kindness goes a long way, and you don’t know the lives you can save just by simply being kind. My story is the reality people need to hear. I hope you’re able to take something from what I’ve shared and pass it on to others.
January is Human Trafficking Awareness Month, a chance to bring awareness to the exploitation for sex and labor that occurs in communities across the United States. More resources are needed to support those who are at risk of being trafficked. As Jose said, more kindness towards marginalized individuals—those who regularly face bias or assumptions about the color of their skin, substance use, homelessness, or troubled home life—is also urgently needed.
LCHT’s 24/7 Human Trafficking Hotline provides both critical support and a compassionate, listening ear for survivors. This year, our Hotline will lose 30% of its funding due to federal budget cuts. Will you make a small monthly gift throughout the year so that no one is turned away from getting the help they need? Just $10/month can help two survivors access immediate support and essential resources through our 24/7 Hotline. You can help prevent human trafficking from happening to more people in our Colorado communities.