Darryl's Background Story! :D

[pinchingyourballs]

My final period of the day was French. We learned a few basic words (or reviewed them) such as “hello” is bon-jour, goodnight is bon-nuit (I figured bon-nuit was “goodnight” when I read a book that had a character calling a French restaurant, asking for her parents, and then says, ‘Bon-nuit” and hangs up the phone when she finds out that they have already left). We learned that “Thank you” was merci, Thank you very much is Merci bon coup, please is Sil Vous Plait, and a few other words.

Merci beaucoup for the French lessons. I'm surprised Darryl doesn't already know a lot of French since he used to go to a Miami public school filled with Haitians. Maybe he should test out of introductory French and ask to transfer to the introductory Latin course.

[pinchingyourballs]

I know, it did sound ridiculous. “My mom just made me apply for a scholarship to ANY prep school. Do you know if prep schools teach remedial Math?" I asked him.

“They should," Mr. Smith answered. “When I was growing up, they did."

I know you're not a fan of reality checks, but prep schools do not admit kids who need remedial math unless they are full-pay kids whose rich parents are donors. Scholarship kids are not rich kids, they are held to a higher standard, therefore remedial math Darryl ain't getting no scholarship to no prep school. From what you've written so far, Darryl is a high schooler who struggles with elementary school level math. I believe the French expression for this is "Ce garçon est un idiot attardé."

[Tasha]

I know, it did sound ridiculous. “My mom just made me apply for a scholarship to ANY prep school. Do you know if prep schools teach remedial Math?" I asked him.

“They should," Mr. Smith answered. “When I was growing up, they did."

I know you're not a fan of reality checks, but prep schools do not admit kids who need remedial math unless they are full-pay kids whose rich parents are donors. Scholarship kids are not rich kids, they are held to a higher standard, therefore remedial math Darryl ain't getting no scholarship to no prep school. From what you've written so far, Darryl is a high schooler who struggles with elementary school level math. I believe the French expression for this is "Ce garçon est un idiot attardé."

Darryl was a straight A Student besides Math. Darryl got his Math to a B Average. Elite boarding schools would love to have a straight A)B student.

[Tasha]

The dean came by. “Son, is there any particular reason you are using profanities?” He asked me gently.

‘I’m just mad about something,” I answered. I didn’t want to talk about it yet. “Well, please, do not use profanities. If you have any issues, you can talk to the counselor, George Green,” dean riley said gently.

“Thanks, Dean Riley,” I answered.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, and left.

I went back to the dorm. I was sure my thoughts were showing on my face. (They sometimes do).

Dave asked me what had happened. “Dave, two guys called me a Nig,” I said, fuming, almost exploding. I wanted to choke those guys (are at least pimp slap them). “I feel awful. I want to beat the shi out of those guys.” I was visibly shaking.

Dave put his arm around me. “It’s okay, Darryl, it’s okay,” he said, trying to comfort me. I looked at Dave. Dave was really a good friend, even though I hadn’t known even known him for five days.

“Dave, thanks, “I said.

“You’re welcome,” Dave replied.

I called my mom. “Mom, these two guys called me a Nig. They told me to go home.” My voice was breaking. I was really affected by this. I needed to speak to my mom. She was my rock. I could tell her anything.

“Honey, I’m sorry that happened to you. I know words hurt,” she said gently.

“Mom, I feel awful,” I confessed. “I want to beat them up.”

“Don’t beat them up. You don’t want to get expelled from a great school like Johnson for fighting,” Mom said.

“But mom, they degraded me. I want to get even with them,” I said.

“Remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said? ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent’,” mom reminded me.

Mom was right, and I do always try to heed that quote, but I had trouble heeding that quote.

“Mom, Eleanor was never called a “Nig””, I reasoned.

“Nig is just a word. They are the ignorant ones for calling you that,” Mom said.

“Mom, were you ever called a “Nig””? I asked softly.

Mom paused for a while. Finally, she spoke. “Yes. I was called a nig before,” she answered me softly.

“And how did you feel?” I asked her softly.

“I wanted to kick those White kids’ asses. My own mother, your grandma, told me that violence was not the answer. She told me if I fought those White kids, I would just be giving them the satisfaction of seeing that they had me in the palm of their hands. So I didn’t beat them up. I put them in their place by acting like I couldn’t care about them less. They stopped harassing me,” Mom recalled.

“Thanks mom,” I said, feeling better. “You’re welcome,” she answered. We both said, “I love you,” and “Goodbye,” and then hung up.

I was still mad about them calling me a nig, even though I was going to heed my mom’s advice.

Dave asked me if I wanted chocolate-chip cookies to make me feel better. I said, “Sure,” and he went into our minifridge and pulled out 4 Nestle Tollhouse “Ready” cookies. He popped them into the microwave and when they were ready, we both got two cookies.

The cookies were so delicious, moist, and warm that I savored every bit of my first cookie. Dave watched me closely, while eating his own first cookie.

“Darryl, I am sorry that you were called a Nig. I would never call you a nig.”

“Thanks, Dave”, I said. I wondered something. “Dave, have you ever called someone a nig?

Dave paused before answering me. He looked hesitant, reluctant, regretful, and embarrassed. “Yes,” he admitted finally, and very softly, looking at me sheepishly.

“When did you?” I asked. “And why?” I also asked, not with hostility, trying to get him to know I wasn’t mad at him, I just wanted to know.

“When I was little, about 9 or 10, I thought that Nig a good word to call Blacks.” He blushed. “I didn’t mean it offensively. I called black people Nig because I heard them calling each other that all the time. I also heard White people calling them Nig too. I thought that Nig was an okay word for a White person to call Black people” He laughed self-depreciatively. I went up to blacks saying, “Hey Nig!” He laughed self-depreciatively again.

I was perplexed when they would give me angry scowls, and I would have a big question mark in my expression. Wasn’t Nig a good word to call Black people? Why were they angry with me? I had questioned in my mind. When an 11-year-old boy kicked me in my shins after I said, “Hi, Nig”, to him, I ran home crying to my mom.

I asked, “Mama, what’s a nig?” with my lip trembling.

“Why? Did you hear that somewhere? “She had asked me.

“I called Black people that word, and they got mad at me. Someone even kicked me in my shin when I called him that,” I had answered her. My mom said, “That’s a VERY bad word! Black people hate that word when White people call them that! Don’t you dare ever call another Black person that!” She was so adamant and vehement, I was scared. But she still hadn’t told me what it meant.

“Mama, what does it MEAN?” I emphasized.

“It means, ‘We White people are better than you Black people. You Blacks are ignorant and stupid. You are like dirt to us. We are superior to you Black people.’ “Is that what you meant when you called them Nigs? “ She asked me, trying to get me to see the point.

“No. I thought that Nig was a good word,” I had answered her.

“Why did you think that?” She asked calmer now.

“I heard Black people calling each other that, and I heard White people calling them that too,” I answered.

“Blacks can call each other Nigs, because when they say it to each other, that’s just their way of communicating with each other. When a White person calls them Nig, that’s usually said in a degrading term.,” she told me. Did the Black people like it when the White people called them that?” she asked me.

“I never paid any attention to the Black peoples’ reactions to the White people calling them that,” I confessed sheepishly.

“Now that you know you are not supposed to call Black people that, will you still call them that?” She asked me, staring at me hard.

“No, mama, no. I will never call Black people that again!” I promised her, and I still haven’t called Black people Nig to this day,” Dave concluded.

I (Darryl) felt better after Dave told me his story. I even laughed while he told me his story. “Thank you Dave for telling me that story,” I said with a smile.

“You’re welcome,” Dave replied. “Just pretend that the guys who called you a Nig just didn’t know any better, like what happened to me,” he advised me.

“No, I can’t “pretend””, I said, my expression turning serious again. “They really meant it. They sneered at me, Dave. They SNEERED,” I repeated again for emphasis.

Dave said, “Those guys are idiots. They didn’t know you. They just saw a skin color. You’re a great guy Darryl, and you are also very smart.”

I thanked him again, and he said, “No problem.” I did some homework, and Dave and I went to the dining hall again. As we were eating our chicken fingers, fries, and drank orange soda, I saw the Sneerys again.

I asked Dave if we could sit somewhere else. He asked me why, and I answered, “It’s too cold under here.”

We moved to another table, FAR away from the Snerrys. Dave and I finished our meal, and began to leave the dining hall. All of a sudden, the Sneerys stepped in front of us.

“Hey, Dave, you like Cookies and Cream?” Sneery Left asked.

“Hey, Dave, you got Jungle Fever?” Sneery Right asked.

“You like mixing your chocolate with your vanilla?” Sneery Left asked.

“You like the color gray?” Sneery Left asked.

“Leave us alone,” Dave said. I could tell he was feeling harassed.

“We already told your friend to go home, “Sneery Left said.

“And he’s still here,” Sneery Right said.

They were talking about me as if I wasn’t even there.

“Let’s go,” I said, pulling Dave’s arm.

Sneery Left said to me, “No, you didn’t want to “go” home when we told you to “go” earlier, so now you are going to “stay”. He said this, glaring at me menacingly.

He was scaring me.

[pinchingyourballs]

I know, it did sound ridiculous. “My mom just made me apply for a scholarship to ANY prep school. Do you know if prep schools teach remedial Math?" I asked him.

“They should," Mr. Smith answered. “When I was growing up, they did."

I know you're not a fan of reality checks, but prep schools do not admit kids who need remedial math unless they are full-pay kids whose rich parents are donors. Scholarship kids are not rich kids, they are held to a higher standard, therefore remedial math Darryl ain't getting no scholarship to no prep school. From what you've written so far, Darryl is a high schooler who struggles with elementary school level math. I believe the French expression for this is "Ce garçon est un idiot attardé."

Darryl was a straight A Student besides Math. Darryl got his Math to a B Average. Elite boarding schools would love to have a straight A)B student.

Elite boarding schools receive far more applications than they have spots, therefore they can be very selective and only admit the best students, which makes them elite.

A high schooler who is getting a B in remedial math (elementary school math) and A's in everything else simply can't compete with students who are getting A's in all subjects including age-appropriate math. So, this story is pure fantasy. You might as well call it Hogwarts.

Why not change it so that Darryl is actually very advanced in mathematics? That would be much more realistic. Also, this side plot about Darryl being a super dummy in math is not very interesting anyway. It would be much more interesting if he were a math genius from the ghetto. Like Goodwill Hunting or something.

[MisterV]

SNORE....

[DGenBen]

Karen: As alluded to I stopped bothering to read this drivel, it is truly juvenile, poorly written, poorly conceived and not at all interesting.

You might as well translate it into Sanskrit for all the good it will do you.

Does a tree make a noise when it falls if nobody hears it?

And to this Tasha says “Mission Accomplished,”

You can’t mock what you can’t read.

[Tasha]

Okay, okay, I'll CONFESS! The reason that Darryl is taking Remedial classes in Math is because I was taking Remedial Math classes myself when I was in High School!

[MisterV]

Okay, okay, I'll CONFESS! The reason that Darryl is taking Remedial classes in Math is because I was taking Remedial Math classes myself when I was in High School!

Oh wait...that has possibilities...

____________________________________________

"Mammie, I and I is offs ta school, wishes me lucks on my maff test."

"Chile, you caint tell time let 'lone do long division, how you gonna pass a test?"

"I cheats, mammie. 'Dere is 'dis girl from my class, her pappy left her one day in de car at de casino, she be's my casino frien' now and she be very good in maff an' lets me looks a' her answers an' copies dem."

Mammie took a deep pull of Fireball while watching her step daughter head out.

"Lord amighty, but dat girl is dumb as a box o' rocks; at least she learning good cheatin' skills, 'dat'll hold her in good stead when she grows up."

[pinchingyourballs]

Okay, okay, I'll CONFESS! The reason that Darryl is taking Remedial classes in Math is because I was taking Remedial Math classes myself when I was in High School!

I had an inkling.

[Tasha]

“Dave, remember if you stay friends with this Nig, you won’t get into the “Club” and we will tell everyone about your little “Trip”. Remember the heavy sweats, the shaking, and the fixes?” Sneery Right asked. Sneery Left nodded his head, giving Dave an evil smile. “I remember clearly. And I don’t mind telling Dave’s family what happened.”

“Leave me alone,” Dave said again. “And leave Darryl alone.”

“Darryl? This little Nig’s name is Darryl?” Sneery Left replied. “I thought his name was Kunta Kinte.” He laughed nastily.

I tried to leave again, but Sneery Right grabbed my arm. Hard. His fingers dug into my skin. “You don’t belong here. Go back to the projects. Go back to your welfare ghetto. You’re just a little Nig. Your parents must have begged the government to get you here. This institution takes pity on you little Nigs, he said softly, but menancingly.

“Please,” I begged softly. Why wasn’t anyone helping Dave and I? I looked around, and some students looked reluctant to help Dave and me. Other students just plain ignored us. They must have not wanted any trouble. The Sneerys obviously were a threat not to be reckoned with.

“I don’t want any trouble, “I told Sneery right.

“If you didn’t want any trouble, you would have left when we told you too. Now that you’re here, you’re gonna get what you asked for,” Sneery right told me ominously.

“Please,” I said again. Tears began to run down my face. I cried because I was scared. What would they do to me? To Dave?

Dave said, “Darryl’s not asking for trouble. He just wants his education. Just let him be.” Dave looked at the Sneerys pleadingly.

The Sneerys laughed cruelly. “His welfare school wasn’t giving him an “education”? Sneery Right asked/said, mockingly.

North Miami was the “projects/” NMSH was a “welfare” school? North Miami was one of the most blessed areas in all of Miami, with a low crime rate. NMSH was the envy of a lot of school is Miami.

Sneery Left said, “Johnson is for us Rich, White, Boys. And this Nig is only one of the three. He was smiling evilly.

Sneery Right still had his hand on me. Sneery Left had been holding Dave’s arm. The Sneerys both looked at us very intimidatingly, as if they wanted to beat us up. Sneery Right spit in my face. “That’s a moisturizer for your ashy face,” he told me, cruelly. Then Sneery Left said, “You missed a spot”, let go of Dave, and spit in my face too.

“That’s extra moisturizer for you,” he said, evilly too. Then, Sneery Left pushed Dave backwards so hard that he fell backwards on his back. Sneery left walked over to Dave menancingly, and I could see the fear in Dave’s eyes.

“Please. We’ve never harmed you,” Dave said, shaking. “We’ve done nothing to hurt you,” he continued, begging. Sneery Left kicked him in the side. “That’s for hanging out with a Nig. If you dumped him, you wouldn’t be going through this now.” He roughly picked up Dave and gave him a closed first punch in the jaw. Dave yelped in pain.

On the other hand, Sneery Right let go of my arm and beat my head with powerful blows. Then he kicked me in my stomach, and as I bowled over from the pain, Sneery Right kicked me in my leg, and I fell. I was getting the shi beat out of me. As I lay down on the floor, Sneery Right kicked me again in my other leg.

“Please stop,” I begged him. “I already told you, I don’t want any trouble.”

Sneery Right laughed evilly, then picked me up, and pushed me roughly into Dave.

“Sorry to interrupt your “fun” with Dave,” Sneery Right apologized to Sneery left.

“No problem,” Sneery left answered. He dragged Dave away from me and continued his pummeling on Dave.

“Please,” Dave begged again. He sounded weak and frail.

“I’ll stop beating you up when you stop being his friend,” Sneery Left said. He punched Dave in the jaw again.

“Please,” Dave begged again, shaking. “Please.”

“Oh you don’t want to stop being his friend,” Sneery Left said, and punched Dave in the gut.

“Just stop. Please,” Dave begged again, shakily.

“Call him a Nig and then you can go. I’ll stop beating you up,” Sneery Left negotiated.

Dave looked at me. I could see tortured pain in his eyes. He really didn’t want to be beat anymore, but he promised his mom and me that he would never call me or any other Black person that word.

“Say it!” Sneery Left said. He whacked Dave upside his head.

“Ni….Ni….” Dave said, shaking. I knew he was really tortured.

“The whole word!” Sneery Left barked. He punched Dave in the gut again.

“Ni…….” Dave said weakly.

“The word is Nig-Ger!”” with each syllable, Sneery Left roughly punched Dave in the face.

“I don’t want to call him that,” Dave said, shakily. He didn’t look to strong.

“Then you WANT to be beat up like a rag doll,” Sneery left said. He picked up an empty chair and cracked it over Dave’s head. Then he slammed Dave’s head into a table.

“Noooooooo!” I screamed, watching Dave suffer.

“Shut up!” Sneery Right yelled at me and roughly put his arm around me neck and began to strangle me.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Nig,” he told me raspily. I began to make gagging noises. Sneery Right removed his arm and did DDT on me. (That’s a wrestling move). He picked me up into the air. “Please no,” I begged, knowing what he had in mind. He was going to drop me onto the floor. “Please don’t do it,” I begged.

He put me above his head and dropped me onto the floor. The floor rose to meet me and I blacked out after the searing pain. When I came to, I was still lying on the floor. I got up and looked for Dave. Dave was on the floor, next to me. Dave’s laboring was heavy and his eyes were closed. I hoped he was okay.

[pinchingyourballs]

This story is very disturbing, but also thought provoking and full of twists and turns. I can't believe Dave decided to take a beating rather than call Darryl a slur. To get back at these bullies, Darryl should write one of their names on his remedial math homework. That way the teachers will think one of the bullies is retarded in math.

[pinchingyourballs]

Wait, wait, are the two bullies who call Darryl names actually Boz and V?? Are you going to have a side plot where these two bullies poop on the floor of the dining hall and blame it on Darryl?

[Tasha]

I called a school nurse to look at him. I was worried. I had fallen on my face. Dave was lying on his back, which meant he had been dropped on the back of his head. The nurse asked, “What happened to you guys?”

“I…I…,” I started. “We fainted,” I concluded, lying. The nurse looked at us suspiciously, but said he’d be right back. He left us for five minutes, and then came back. He had smelling salts and put them under Dave’s nose. Dave came to.

“Where am I?” Dave asked, sounding groggy. He blinked, looking confused. His breathing was still labored.

“You’re on the dining hall floor,” the nurse answered. “Can you tell me what happened?” He looked at me suspiciously again.

“We fainted,” Dave said.

Amazing! He couldn’t have known what I had said just a moment before.

The nurse gave Dave an oxygen mask, and in a few minutes, he was breathing normally. The nurse took off the mask and he checked both of our “okayness”. We responded fine to his questions.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“It’s 10:15.” He said.

“10:15?” I exclaimed. “We need to get back to the dorm!”

The nurse said, “It’s dangerous walking back to the dorm at this time of night. I’ll walk you back.”

Dave and I agreed, and we all left the dining hall. The nurse escorted us back to the dorm, and I took out my key and opened the door.

“Thanks, Nurse,” Dave and I both said.

“You’re welcome,” he said. Dave and I went in, and Dave closed the door.

“I can’t believe what happened,” Dave said.

“I know, it’s like a bad dream,” I concurred. I looked at him in awe. “You didn’t even give up when you had the choice too.”

“I wasn’t going to call you a Nig. I gave you my word that I wouldn’t call you that,” he said, looking sheepish.

“What about the Ni…Ni…”? I asked him, wondering.

“I wasn’t going to call you a Nig. I was hoping they would be satisfied with just the first syllable, but they weren’t.” He smiled ruefully.

I remembered something. What about the “club” and the other thing? “What’s this about a “club” and sweating? And what are “fixes?” I asked him.

Dave suddenly looked unwilling to talk. He gave me a “closed” look. I knew he really didn’t want to talk about what they were.

“Darryl, don’t you want to go to sleep?” He asked me in a kind of begging tone.

“No, not yet,” I answered him. “What were those guys talking about?” I asked him again.

“Nothing. They were talking about nothing.” Dave gave me a nervous look. I knew he was hiding something.

“Come on, you can tell me. We’re friends,” I coaxed him.

“You promise not to tell anyone?” Dave looked at me imploringly, like he wanted to know he could trust me.

“Yes,” I promise,” I promised.

Dave took a deep breath. The “Club” is an exclusive fraternity. Phi Beta Alpha. It’s really great. Once you get into it, you become a BMOC.”

“What’s a BMOC?” I asked.

“Big Man On Campus,” Dave answered. “I’ve always wanted to join PBA. I’ve always wanted to become a “brother”,” Dave continued.

“Hey, I’m a “brother”, I said, jokingly. The joke was that all Black guys are considered “brothers”.

Dave tried to smile, but I could tell he was more interested in telling me about PBA than in the joke. He continued. “If I get into PBA, do you know how good that will look on my college applications?” He smiled a real smile this time. “Some colleges like fraternities. If I get into PBA, I will get more respect.

The Student Body would respect me a lot. I would go to a lot of parties, instead of staying home alone on Fridays and Saturdays.” He looked at his nails. I could tell he was sad about spending Fridays and Saturdays alone. But hey!

“You have me. I’ll be home on Fridays and Saturdays,” I told him.

“True, Dave agreed, “but you just got here. Before you came, this dorm was a single,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, understanding.

“And even with you being here, staying home on these days is still considered spending it alone.

“Dave, you could visit other dorms on those nights,” I suggested.

“Yeah, that’s not much fun when most people are asleep at night,” Dave lamented.

“Oh,” I said again.

“PBA is the best fraternity on Johnson. There are others, but nothing touches this one. But, I do have something to confess.” His face had been bright when he talked about how great PBA was, but it became dark when he went to the “confess” part.

“What?” I replied.

“The Wonder Boys are both head of the PBA. The wonderful guys who beat us up earlier,” he answered, looking upset.

“I had no idea,” I said softly. “And you still want to join the PBA?” I asked him, perplexed.

“Yeah. I know, it’s pathetic,” Dave answered. “That’s why they told me if I didn’t drop you as a friend; I wouldn’t get into the club. They know how much I want to be in the PBA. They know how great I think it is,” Dave continued.

“People like that run the PBA?” I answered, astonished.

“Yeah. The way they rush people is horrendous. The pledges have to steal test answers for them and do their homework for them. The pledges have to walk around campus in their underwear for a full school day, and sometimes they have to steal professors’ belongings to get into the club.

“So, you would have to do that too?” I asked him.

“Actually, I’m pre-pledge. They are only THINKING of rushing me for PBA. So, right now, I’m in a good place,” he answered, smiling.

“What about the “sweaty” part?” I asked him.

Dave looked at me nervously again.

“Come on, tell me. You can tell me,” I coaxed him again.

“I used to be a drug addict,” he said softly, looking reluctant. “I was on cocaine. I tried it once at a regular party, not a Frat party, after someone offered me a little. “I thought, ‘What the hell? It’s only a little cocaine. It’ll be harmless." I took it, and was instantly hooked.

I LIKED the cocaine and loved the high I got off from it. It was such a rush! I soon was snorting cocaine 20 times a day. I was skipping classes to snort cocaine. I couldn’t stop, and I LIKED not being able to stop. I was using money my folks gave me to buy cocaine.

I had a drug dealer that would come to this school, and we would make the exchange. When my money ran out, I soon began stealing money from other students to buy cocaine. I was always shaking and sweating when I couldn’t have my fix.

After the fix, I would start convulsing, because Darryl, cocaine makes you convulse. But I did stop sweating. When Dean Riley found a trace of cocaine on my book bag, he demanded I seek rehab. I said, “I don’t have a problem! I’m not a cocaine addict! I’ve never even taken cocaine in my life! That’s not my cocaine!”

‘He let me go for a few days, but soon found me snorting cocaine He watched me as I finished with my “fix” and confronted me.

“Dean Riley,” I had said in surprise. I knew I was busted, but I wasn’t going down without a little lying. “It’s not what you think. It’s not cocaine, it’s baby powder,” I had lied. I soon began to convulse.

Dean Riley searched my book bag and my dorm and found five more bags of cocaine.

“So, all of this is Baby Powder, huh?’ He said wryly, obviously not believing me.

I had looked at the floor. “So, am I going to jail?’ I had asked him.

“No, we’re going to take you to Rehab,” Dean Riley told me.

“No! I need the cocaine!” I yelled. I lunged for the cocaine but missed and ended up on the floor. “Dean Riley, I can’t live without the cocaine!” I said. “I need it! I need it!” I yelled again, and got up. “I want it!” I yelled. I looked like a madman. My eyes were wild and I was doing this wild, wild, dance. “Give it to me!” I yelled again. I began to burst into tears because of my addiction.

Dean Riley gently wiped my tears and threw away the bags of cocaine into Johnson's garbage chute. I actually tried to go into the garbage chute to get my “fixes”, back, but Dean Riley gently stopped me.

“You have a problem, son,” he told me gently. “You need help.” He threw put me in Rehab, and I was there for two weeks. The withdrawal symptoms were murder. I couldn’t get my fixes, I was sweating and shaking, and my brain had gotten so used to the cocaine that it wanted more. My body started to go through pain, because I was going through drug withdrawal.

I was sweating my bed sheets so much that it looked like I had wet the bed. A counselor talked to me about how much better my life would be without the cocaine. When I had been detoxed, I felt good and made a vow that I would not use cocaine anymore. A full year later, I am still cocaine free. “He gave me a big smile.

“That was only a year ago?” I asked him, shocked.

“Yeah. And my family doesn’t know. The Wonder Boys threatened to tell them about my addiction and Rehab if I continued to be your friend,” he answered.

“Wow,” I answered. “Thanks for sharing your story with me,” I told him.

[pinchingyourballs]

Wow! Tasha, as you've mentioned, many things in this Darryl story are autobiographical, which is a fancy term for the author writing about her own life. Did you also used to be addicted to cocaine in high school?

[Tasha]

Wow! Tasha, as you've mentioned, many things in this Darryl story are autobiographical, which is a fancy term for the author writing about her own life. Did you also used to be addicted to cocaine in high school?

I was never a Cocaine Addict. My Sister was a Cocaine Addict however and she died as a cause of her Cocaine Addiction . Let's just say, her drug dealer is in prison and she is in the ground.

[pinchingyourballs]

Wow! Tasha, as you've mentioned, many things in this Darryl story are autobiographical, which is a fancy term for the author writing about her own life. Did you also used to be addicted to cocaine in high school?

I was never a Cocaine Addict. My Sister was a Cocaine Addict however and she died as a cause of her Cocaine Addiction . Let's just say, her drug dealer is in prison and she is in the ground.

I'm very sad to hear that you lost your sister. Glad you have avoided that path.

[MisterV]

Why did you bury her?

Cremation is cheaper, and then there is a new movement to simply do it the old way...not quite dig a hole and throw the body in, but kinda close.

It's supposed to be more "natural."

per google...

Burial without a coffin can be referred to as natural burial, green burial, or shroud burial. These terms emphasize the environmentally conscious approach of placing the body directly into the ground, often without embalming or using a non-biodegradable container. Natural burial typically involves using a biodegradable container or shroud, or placing the body directly into the ground.


How'd sis die of coke? OD? Shot in a drug deal gone bad?

[Tasha]

Why did you bury her?

Cremation is cheaper, and then there is a new movement to simply do it the old way...not quite dig a hole and throw the body in, but kinda close.

It's supposed to be more "natural."

per google...

Burial without a coffin can be referred to as natural burial, green burial, or shroud burial. These terms emphasize the environmentally conscious approach of placing the body directly into the ground, often without embalming or using a non-biodegradable container. Natural burial typically involves using a biodegradable container or shroud, or placing the body directly into the ground.


How'd sis die of coke? OD? Shot in a drug deal gone bad?

Drug Dealer strangled her to death.

[Tasha]

Wow! Tasha, as you've mentioned, many things in this Darryl story are autobiographical, which is a fancy term for the author writing about her own life. Did you also used to be addicted to cocaine in high school?

I was never a Cocaine Addict. My Sister was a Cocaine Addict however and she died as a cause of her Cocaine Addiction . Let's just say, her drug dealer is in prison and she is in the ground.

I'm very sad to hear that you lost your sister. Glad you have avoided that path.

Thank you for your condolences.