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“This is yoah test, boy,” Hugh said in his Southern drawl. “Where are we going?” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. I heard more car doors slam shut and then the engine roared to life.
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Two brothers filed in on either side of me, boxing me in. I really hoped they wouldn’t make me drink piss. I knew better than to bolt or fight back this was part of it. I only knew we were outside when I could hear the chirping of crickets and felt the thick Atlanta heat sweep over me.Ī car door opened and I was thrown inside. Whoever had their hand over my mouth grunted a reply and I was carried out of my dorm in total darkness. Hugh, a lanky blonde majoring in Psychology (oh irony), stepped up to the plate and no one batted an eye. He stayed quiet and out of their way as long as they kept their shenanigans out of the public eye. Hugh was more or less in charge the frat president was a guy with a squeaky-clean record who was doing it for the boost to his eventual résumé. The deep drawl of this one told me it was Hugh. “Keep ‘im quiet until we’re in the car,” another voice said. I tasted the sweaty cloth of the pillowcase. “Where are you-” I began, but a strong hand clapped down over my mouth. I was only wearing boxers that night since it’d been unbearably hot. Someone obeyed him and I was lifted out of bed. Jeffy was a football player, 250 pounds of pure muscle, and I’d once heard him call me a kike behind my back. “What the fuck!” I cried, more out of reflex than anything else. On a Thursday night, around 2am, I was woken up by someone shoving a pillowcase over my head. I couldn’t imagine what they had in mind for me if that wasn’t the worst thing on their list.
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I heard rumors they made one guy drink a beer mug full of piss. I spent those warm September days in constant fear, never sure when someone might strike. Kept mentioning how they were gonna get me good, saving the best for last. Problem was I was a Yankee and this was a place where they still called people “Yankees”. It was the whole reason I tried to join up: I wanted to fit in. Good ol’ Georgia boys, sons of farmers and senators and sheriffs, they didn’t want me – a skinny Jewish kid from Brooklyn – to be one of them. The brothers didn’t like me, I could tell. And Hell Week was… well, it was exactly what it sounded like. You lasted through Hell Week or you didn’t make the cut. It was the week before pledges get initiated – popularly known as “Hell Week” – and I was nervous. In the early 2000s, I tried to join a frat at Georgia State University.