The Story of Desmond

My name is Desmond banks, I am a 19-year-old who grew up on the 'bad' side of town, life dealt me a hand I never asked for. My mother, battling addiction, and a phantom father shaped my early years. At 12, my mother succumbed to the drugs that had gripped her. It should have been the end of my world, but somehow, I always sensed this day would come. From kindergarten to grade 7 I was a student of FutureHendrix academy. My education at FutureHendrix Academy, was a far cry from the national standard. In a school where the teachers seemed motivated solely by their paychecks. The student body did not have access to all the courses other schools offered, so most students chips did not feature higher level learning classes. Based on our chip data you would assume most of the student here were uneducated, however we learned through each other. unlike other people, my community still frequently hung out, we made jokes and told stories about ancient times, like 2023. Imagine how weird the world looked then. Grade 7 marked the beginning of my life on the streets after my mother's death. Cold nights were spent on couches and pavements,. One cold winter night, I broke in and slept in an ancient library. I have never seen one of those before. The shelfs were filled with hardcopy physical books, I was only used to reading through my headset. However, one night I picked up the book Brother by David chariandy, and I immediately fell in love with reading. I spent many nights reading different books and using the dictionary or glossary to learn new concepts. most youth in my country, had the luxury of access and a high power chipped that stored their knowledge and provided them with a cache of intelligence. Without a school to provide me a headset, I had to visualize and imagine in my own head the things I would read. A lot of the books I read, related to hustling, and making money by any means necessary to get what you want. I don’t assume the books meant resort to crime; however I had no option. A year of homelessness led me to a desperate choice—selling drugs. I never indulged, but survival on the streets demanded compromises. By 14 I eventually made enough money to rent an under the table apartment. I continued to sell drugs for the next couple years, I made quite a bit of money, but I always knew that I had a bigger purpose in life and that I would change my ways and get back into school. One night the police raided the apartments we were in and arrested 125 people for an ongoing murder investigation. No one in my apartments were even from the area the murder occurred, but there is nothing we can do when the police raid us. We were all brought into holding cells and each had to tap our chip on a large red machine, it kind of gave us a small jolt, however we never thought anything of it. Days and months after being released, my community seen an increase in police presence, there were already cameras around everywhere so this seemed almost unnecessary. The way the police followed us however, felt almost as if we were being tracked. One night I went across town to a usual customer, and sold him 10 ounces of cocaine. Before entering my building I was met with 5 police cards that shouted at me to get on the ground and that I was under arrest. I have been in jail 2 years now and have continued to read. The jail provides each imamate who shows good behaviour a headset, I skewered through multiple books in a month and constantly watched the news. On the news I began hearing rumblings about police placing trackers in civilians chips, there was public outcry at this idea. However people in my community felt as if this was already a thing, the night of the raid, things changed, police always knew where we were and when. I write in this diary as this is my last day in prison, and the day that I become a better man.