A little background on Rachel, from that fine New Yorker article, "The Throwaways" (12/09/03):
By the time Rachel was twelve, she had been a ballerina, a Brownie, an equestrian, and a Weeki Wachee Springs Little Mermaid contestant; by eighteen, she had learned to play the flute and the piano, gone skydiving, and hiked the Grand Canyon. By twenty-three, she had completed an undergraduate degree in psychology, interned at a mental-health institute, and travelled internationally. She loved to cook—she’d prepare elaborate multicourse meals for friends and deliver homemade matzo-ball soup to an ailing classmate. She was given to hatching big plans: She had initially dreamed of going into counselling, but decided to apply to culinary school. She would invent a new form of therapy, she told her dad; perhaps troubled kids who hated talking to a therapist from an overstuffed couch would open up as she taught them how to bake cakes and make spaghetti carbonara.
The officers involved in the operation were suspended with pay, and the family filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the city.
Message to the officers, and to their brethren colleagues in the profession being, in so many words: "Aw shucks, it was just a little misunderstanding. After all, she didn't follow instructions, did she? Don't beat yourselves up over it."
Can you please define 'druggy', in this context and in general? Also, would you be comfortable listing all of your medications and past experiences so i can fit you into a generalized subgroup and decide what you deserve? k thanks
She was a druggy after all and got everything she deserved.
The user above may have meant it as sarcasm, but the funny part is, this is in fact pretty much what the cops were saying about her in the weeks after her murder.
Which is extremely disconcerting but not at all unexpected. They have to believe their own rhetoric; otherwise the few cops with conscience + intellect would quit.
I just hate that a person's life can be boiled down to a sentence or two based on a few activities they were purportedly involved. The feel is bad.
By the time Rachel was twelve, she had been a ballerina, a Brownie, an equestrian, and a Weeki Wachee Springs Little Mermaid contestant; by eighteen, she had learned to play the flute and the piano, gone skydiving, and hiked the Grand Canyon. By twenty-three, she had completed an undergraduate degree in psychology, interned at a mental-health institute, and travelled internationally. She loved to cook—she’d prepare elaborate multicourse meals for friends and deliver homemade matzo-ball soup to an ailing classmate. She was given to hatching big plans: She had initially dreamed of going into counselling, but decided to apply to culinary school. She would invent a new form of therapy, she told her dad; perhaps troubled kids who hated talking to a therapist from an overstuffed couch would open up as she taught them how to bake cakes and make spaghetti carbonara.