(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . My Best Friend Accused a Man of Rape. I Didn’t Know How to Help Her [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.', 'Backgroundurl Avatar_Large', 'Nickname', 'Joined', 'Created_At', 'Story Count', 'N_Stories', 'Comment Count', 'N_Comments', 'Popular Tags'] Date: 2023-04-15 Talk About It As a high school student, I was unlike most of my peers. Because I liked attending secondary school, and for an assortment of reasons. For I was an academic star, one of the roughly forty students who were members of the top ten percent of the graduating class. I participated in two varsity sports, increasing my visibility amongst the thousands of students who attended my school. My popularity as a high school senior precipitated my ascension to school royalty, and I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed”. As a freshman, I had been less revered by my peers, an unpopular loner. Typically, my school days consisted of going to class and keeping my head down to escape the attention of the bullies. I could not have imagined becoming such a success as a high school senior. Nevertheless, in May 1995, some four years removed from enduring a horrifying freshman school year, when I absorbed daily, withering, verbal assaults on my sartorial choices from crueler older students, I was coveted by young women and exclusive colleges, an object of adulation by scores of young black male underclassmen. Moreover, unlike many of the other scholastic luminaries populating the senior class, I did not choose to rest on my laurels during my senior year in high school. I chose to carry a full complement of classes — eight to be exact — because I truly loved to learn and grow academically. I chose to take an Honors Thesis course instead of College English during my senior year. Some of my high-achieving contemporaries enrolled in Advanced English questioned my choice, as Honors Thesis existed one level below A.P. English in terms of status. Yet, most of the people who quibbled chose to matriculate in half of the number of classes, spending the remainder of their school days engaging in unproductive shenanigans. A full day of school was my anchor to reality, a necessary part of my everyday existence. I would have felt lost and aimless if I did not have it in my life. Honors Thesis was my favorite class for an assortment of reasons, with the most salient being the presence of one particular individual, Meghan. Meghan was an academic star, accumulating a 3.6 grade point average across four years of study. In exchange for assiduous scholastic effort, she had been granted acceptance into one of the best colleges operating in the state of Colorado. Meghan sat at the desk chair situated directly in front of me. She and I were the only students of African descent in the class, two specks of black in a swirling pool of mostly white, Latino, and Asian students. Meghan and I did not speak explicitly about the composition of our classroom, but we gave each other knowing looks on occasion. Still, our minority status did not prevent us from interacting with the other students occupying the classroom. In fact, Meghan and I pretty much got along with everyone in the class. However, we were able to forge a special friendship, one that facilitated a healthy exchange of banter and ideas. Meghan loved to laugh. Oftentimes, she would throw her head back as she cackled in response to one of my jokes. Before Meghan, I had not thought I was funny. Meghan’s responses to my stabs at humor had me seriously thinking about joining a professional comedy circuit. She also perceived me as a smart, charismatic, and capable human without specifically alluding to these qualities. Meghan was also attractive, a woman with mocha brown skin, brown eyes, and a beatific smile. Her body was lithe and muscular, a byproduct of her participation in competitive track and field events. She was a damn near perfect young woman at age eighteen, and I had seriously considered asking her to accompany me to the school prom. She’d offered hints about her affinity toward me, as she often spoke about how fun it would be to attend the prom ceremony. Still, I lacked the necessary confidence to ask Meghan to the event, and my parents were skeptical of the very notion of prom too. Predictably, other suitors aggressively courted Meghan before she settled on a lucky individual. I spent prom night at the house with my family. Meghan and I continued our friendship during the summer preceding the next school year. Excitedly, we spoke of our pending matriculations into university and promised to extend our friendship into the distant future. One hot summer afternoon,as Meghan and I sat down at a burger joint for lunch, she blurted out a warning: “You better not forget about me, Eze.” I swallowed a piece of hamburger and said, “Uh what?” A tear slid down the side of Meghan’s face, causing me to release the vice grip on my sandwich. Apart from my dear mother, no woman had ever shed a tear in response to my imminent departure. So of course, I froze in place for a few seconds, as I was unsure of how to react to Meghan’s expression of emotion. Meghan wiped away subsequent tears and said, “I’m sorry. I do not know why I started crying like that.” “That’s okay,” I said. “It’s all right. You don’t have to be ashamed.” “Thank you, Eze.” “Of course I won’t forget about you,” I replied, meaning every word. “Why do you think I would do that.” Meghan sighed and said, “I don’t know. People tend to drift apart when they live far away from each other. You are going all the way to Boston and the east coast, and I am staying in Colorado for school.” No, I thought. My feelings for Meghan were strong and enduring, one of the reasons I was eternally thankful for the gift of life. However, I was excited to begin my new life in Boston, where I would meet new people and experience new cultures — Boston University supported students from over 130 countries. Yet, I could not ever imagine forgetting Meghan, a woman for whom I felt genuine affection. “How about we make a pact, Meghan,” I said. Meghan smiled and said, “What kind of pact?” “How about we make sure to keep in touch next year. We talk to each other at least once every week.” “You think we’ll have the time?” “I think so. My family expects me to call them every Sunday. Outside of them, you are the closest thing I have to family.” Meghan sprang into action, reaching a hand across the table. Instinctively, I placed my hand on top of her own. As we stared into each other’s eyes, I had to resist the urge to jump across the table and plant a kiss on her. “Promise?” she said. “I promise.” “You won’t change?” I smiled and said, “Nope. I like me.” Meghan threw her head back and laughed. During the first few months of the new school year, Meghan and I maintained contact through email. However, as time progressed, I began to turn away from her. As a new student in the School of Management, I was performing below standards. Professors piled on the workload, usurping some of the time I would have spent watching television. Moreover, so many women were attending my college, nearly three for every two men. Tens of thousands had come from all over the world, converging on a stretch of blocks in Boston, Massachusetts, where they were eager to meet virile young men. My new friends and I sought out these women at clubs and parties during the weekends. I lost my virginity to a woman named Keyonna on Halloween night in 1995, with spontaneous sex becoming an automatic ingress to a relationship at age eighteen. My relationship with Keyonna lasted a month before I precipitated its end, as there was too much arguing and crying for me to handle. After repeatedly referring to me as “asshole” and “dog”, Keyonna said that my behavior would hamper my relationships with other women. After my experience with Keyonna, I resolved not to seek out strictly monogamous relationships with women. As a young, muscular, and attractive black man, I was in demand, especially by the fairer-skinned foreign women. Why should I put constraints on myself? I thought. Two days after returning home for Christmas break, I was alone in the house when my phone rang. I grabbed the receiver before hesitating for a moment, because I knew it was Meghan, the woman who had been proven prescient by my actions over the previous months. It only took three months for me to change, probably for the worse. It was the holiday season, and my best friend was calling me. I should have been elated, but answering that phone felt like a laborious chore. “Hello?” I said. “Hello there stranger,” said Meghan. “Don’t say that Meghan.” “Well, it feels like I’m talking to a stranger.” “Oh.” Meghan giggled and said, “I’m just joking with you, Eze. I still know you. But it has been a long time since we’ve talked.” “Yeah. Things got busy during the first semester. You know there was school and work-study and…” “And partying.” “Yes. There has been some partying.” “And girls too.” With a flushed face I said, “I guess there were a few.” “Uh oh. You sound sheepish. Am I embarrassing you, Eze? I am just messing with you, so do not be ashamed. You are not the only one who has been messing around. I dipped my toe in the pond a few times.” After exhaling a long-held breath, I felt a sense of relief, as I was not the only one who partook in the decadent part of the college experience. We were both responsible for letting our relationship atrophy like an unused leg muscle. Perhaps we could recommit to investing time and care into our relationship. “We are not going to cast judgment upon each other,” I said. “No, we won’t,” said Meghan. “That’s good.” “Yeah,” said Meghan in a whisper. “How are you?” I said. “I’ve been struggling with something,” Meghan replied. “What?” Meghan let out a long sigh and said, “We’ve been talking about parties. I went to a house party a few months ago and…there was a guy.” “All right.” Heat surged and circulated through me, paired with a sense of shock. A specific boy who was not me had made a distinct impression on her. She hurt me for the first time. Was she trying to do it on purpose? “We were drinking beer together for a while before I began feeling a little woozy. And that is all I can remember before waking up the next morning.” “Where did you wake up?” I could hear Meghan shudder. “Meghan?” “In his bed. I woke up in his bed. My shirt was undone. He said I drank too much before passing out.” “Oh.” “I believed him at first, but I’ve been thinking about it the last few weeks. I think…” “You think…what?” “I think…he slipped…something in my drink.” “Oh.” “Yeah.” “What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything. I left his apartment and that was it. I kept quiet about it until now. You are the first person I have told about this.” My heart was pounding, threatening to burst through my chest. “Do you think he took advantage of you?” “I think he did, yes.” It was December 1995, twenty-three years before the Me Too Movement became a thing. I was eighteen years old too, and had no immediate experience counseling a friend who had endured sexual assault. I froze in place for a moment, as I was unsure of what I should do or say to Meghan. However, I knew that Meghan and I would be separated by more than a thousand miles soon. I looked at the calendar and counted the remaining days. Only five were left before I was scheduled to fly back to Boston. “That is so horrible, Meghan,” I said. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that.” I could recall Meghan being popular in high school, as she counted dozens of girls as friends, and assumed that one of her girlfriends could assist her with a problem I did not know how to solve. I preferred a simple life then, an existence free of debilitating drama. Meghan was a complication I wanted excised from my life. As quickly as possible. “Thank you, Eze,” Meghan said. “Do you want to meet somewhere and talk?” “Uh, sure. When?” I said. “How about tomorrow?” “Tomorrow is not good for me. I’m spending time with the family.” “I understand.” “How about I call you when I’m available? We can go get something to eat, watch a movie, and talk.” “That sounds good.” “All right. I’ll talk to you soon.” That would be the last time I talked to Meghan for years. *** I am a big proponent of karma, the belief that the sum of a person’s actions can predict his/her future. As I remain a single man, a fate that routinely distresses my mother, I wonder if abandoning Meghan contributed to my remaining. Have the gods decided that I am not worthy of a good woman? Recently, Meghan sought me out through Facebook and became a friend, one of a few dozen who attended my high school. She is married to a handsome man and has two healthy biological children. Her additional responsibilities as a nurse affords her very little time for small talk with the friend who failed her twenty-seven years ago. However, I continue to reach out to her, hoping to carve out some time for some conversation and benediction. I want her to know that I am not that immature man anymore. [END] --- [1] Url: https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2023/4/15/2164127/-My-Best-Friend-Accused-a-Man-of-Rape-I-Didn-t-Know-How-to-Help-Her Published and (C) by Daily Kos Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified. via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds: gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/