The independent news organization of Duke University

My name is K-Ville Grass. This is my story.

not not true

When I was younger, my mama told me I could be anything I wanted. I knew better than to rise above my station.

Me and my hundreds of siblings were born on a sod grass farm. My mother died shortly after we were born, but I still remember her last words to us. 

“Aspire to greatness,” she said. We could one day be planted somewhere like the White House South Lawn.

I didn’t want greatness. My dream was to be planted in a quiet backyard in Raleigh. I wanted a comfortable and safe life. Unfortunately, fate had different plans for me. Soon, I was uprooted and brought to Duke University.

I held onto some hope that I would be planted somewhere quiet, like in a patch behind Keohane. Instead, I was unloaded onto dirt in Krzyzewskiville. I shuddered. Some of my siblings looked around in awe, amazed that they would be chosen for such a prestigious position. I knew better. I knew what really went on in K-Ville.

We were beautiful at first. Visitors and tour groups marveled at our color, and made sure to get us in the frame of their pictures of the K-Ville sign. Duke spent a lot of time caring for us. The University watered us every night and carefully clipped us. My siblings were convinced that Duke truly cared about us.

But then came basketball season.

The first home game was brutal. Doe-eyed first-years had no idea what time to show up to the game, and they arrived hours earlier than necessary. The idiots abused us. They paced around on us, they sat down on us, they picked us. That was only the beginning.

The first-years never learned their lessons. They kept coming early to basketball games and kept abusing us. My siblings tried to keep their spirits high. Duke still cared about us, right? They still watered us. They still clipped us.

“No,” I whispered to them, “wait until January.”

January came and so did tenting season. I had heard about tenting from a grass back on the sod farm. The grass said she would sooner be planted on a grazing pasture than in K-Ville during tenting season.

I looked around me. Dozens of students stood around our perimeter, holding tarps in their hands. I wondered why they didn’t step on us. Usually students loved to walk around on us. But now, they were being very careful not to touch us at all. Something was wrong.

Suddenly, a human yelled something through a bullhorn. Then dozens upon dozens of students ran onto the grass.

It was a bloodbath. My siblings were crushed by students running to grab a spot on the lawn. Some were further smothered by a plastic tarp. The humans had no mercy. They put crates down on the tarps to further suffocate my siblings.

Soon, the humans put up tents. They drove stakes into my siblings’ backs. They pounded the stakes further and further, ignoring my brethrens' screams. By some miracle of the Grass God, I survived. I sat between four tents.

Even though I survived, life was not worth living. Humans poured beer and vomit on me every other night. They dragged lawn chairs and lawn ornaments on me. They tortured me with their nightly renditions of Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver.

My few surviving siblings thought that they had endured the worst. The worst was yet to come with P-Checks. I have never known such agony.

Please, remember my story, and perhaps one day, K-Ville Grass will be afforded dignity.

Monday Monday compiled this narrative through interviews with K-Ville Grass, documents, and found footage. Although some creative license was taken, all events described did take place. The movie rights are up for grabs.

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