Congratulations! You’ve survived the onslaught of flyers, posters and emotionally crippling rejection that Rush Week represents. A few brave souls have taken advantage of the week and rushed sororities and fraternities, and the rest of us have rushed out of the way, lest the Chosen Ones insult our chintzy-ass jeans to our face.
Rush Week on Library Walk is like middle school all over again. Nearly buckling under the weight of my backpack, I scurried past groups of the so-called “beautiful people” in the midst of welcoming more well-formed bodies into their fold. I could only wonder what it’s like to be a Chosen One, and why, exactly, I wanted to be a Chosen One (besides the whole “being chosen” thing).
Many times last week I walked past Library Walk to be visually accosted by a huge sign advertising an “Asian-Interest Sorority.” But as I examined the girls milling around their recruitment table in the most fashionable, aloof way possible, it seemed like membership in this sorority didn’t promote an interest in Asian culture as much as promote an interest in being an unnaturally skinny Asian girl and having an inner circle made up entirely of other unnaturally skinny Asian girls.
Hey, don’t knock it — it’s not insularity, it’s “sisterhood.”
But what an odd use of the term “sisterhood” it is. I have a sister already, but I don’t have to pay quarterly dues to keep her, and I have a bit more in common with her than an eating disorder and a few randomly chosen Greek letters. Do I need more sisters? Honestly, having one person to steal my clothes is enough.
I suppose it’s part of their charm and appeal, but Greek organizations are as odd as the girls they deny membership. Paying dues to keep your friends? No thanks — I prefer to buy friends by bringing kick-ass brownies to parties. Wearing the sorority’s official colors? No thanks — Bile Yellow and Gonorrhea Green really don’t suit me. Suffering through all sorts of secret rituals and rites of passage? No thanks — I’m already Catholic.
See? You might as well just go to Mass, throw some money in the collection plate, and dress according to a set of strict specifications — and Jesus is included in the deal, free of charge!
Considering they’re just glorified cliques, sororities and fraternities have an incredible mythology and weight in our culture. It’s often pointed out that most of the men in charge of our country belonged to a frat while in college — including our current president, whose opponents often derisively call him the “drunken frat boy.”
Social scientists continually release studies saying that fraternities demand an extreme version of masculinity, strict heterosexuality, the subjugation of women and probably devil worship as well as an excessive emphasis on paddling. Journalists jump at the chance to pen exposes on Greek organizations, unearthing the shocking discovery that sorority girls go to parties, drink alcohol and then have sex, going on to commit such crimes as cheating by using their sorority sisters’ copies of old exams, eating a high-carb lunch and wearing sweatpants on a Sunday afternoon.
Before every Greek on campus writes angry e-mails to me, I’d just like to point out a few things. First, this is a humor column, and writing about the awesomeness of Greek organizations would be sad, not amusing. Plus, that would be an excessively short column, and I need to meet a certain word count.
Secondly, all I’m trying to say is that Greek organizations are enigmatic: If you’re not part of one, you just don’t get it. In that respect, being a sorority sister or frat brother is like being a mother: After giving birth you rave about how it brought wonder and joy to your life, but everyone else is horrified that you’re actually happy you let some ten-pound tumor claw its way out of your vagina.
That’s all I’m trying to say.
