LIVING GREEK TO ME

I GRADUATED from SMU. But let’s get one thing straight: I’ve never been a cheerleader. I am not blonde and beautiful; I’m not even pretty. I don’t drive a BMW or a Mercedes 450 SL. I didn’t spend my youth at Hockaday or my summers at Camp Waldemar. And I’m not anybody’s sorority sister. I guess I’m what many people familiar with SMU’s reputation might consider a novelty. The truth is, there are hundreds of kids at SMU just like me. But, unfortunately, as often is the case with minorities (and non-Greeks at SMU are a minority), we’re a little tougher to locate and are rarely heard from.

I wish I could say that it was my original intention to remain “independent” (as non-Greeks are referred to) throughout my college career, but that would make this story a work of fiction. When I first left my parents’ nest in Arkansas and relocated at SMU, I was just as caught up in the whole idea of “sisterhood” as anybody anywhere. I had heard all about the wild parties, the ritzy formals, the football bashes and “life in the house.” I saw the way people scanned each other in search of the various Greek paraphernalia that adorned everybody’s hats and sweaters and jackets and shirts and pants. I was smart enough to figure it out: If you were a Chi O or a Kappa or a Pi Phi or a Theta or a Tri Delt or a whatever, you weren’t just a face in the crowd, you were somebody. But no one told me that when it came right down to it, they would be the ones doing the choosing during rush, not me. No one told me they might not want me.

I don’t think the thought that I might get rejected even entered my mind during that first chaotic semester. Sure, I suffered through a few tormented weeks of adjustment at first, but it didn’t last long. Life was just so easy here. I was worlds away from my small hometown, and things were hoppin’ in the big city. There was always something to do, and it rarely involved studying. I didn’t have time to mope around and lament about my long-lost best friend at school in Tulsa or my boyfriend back home in Fort Smith. There was just too much else to do. And besides, I knew that practically every other freshman was stranded in the same unfamiliar boat as I was. We were all surrounded by the same vast ocean of strange faces, and in most cases, there were no parents and few (if any) close friends nearby to act as lifesavers when the seas got a bit too stormy. We had no choice but to dive right in and risk becoming shark bait; we needed to meet each other simply to survive. Consequently, introductions flowed as freely as Niagara falls. But that casual intimacy would end as abruptly and as surely as our first semester together. After sorority/fraternity rush in January, the major peer groups would be established. No longer would there be the need – or, in many cases, the desire – to mingle with the masses.



MY CHRISTMAS vacation was strange (not to mention strained) that year. My hometown friends had all gone to the University of Arkansas (where the sorority system is also very strong) or to other schools that conducted fall, not spring, rush, which is the general rule. Most girls had pledged something. Everywhere I turned I encountered old friends regaled in their newest sorority finery, and they were quick and anxious to recount the wonders of Greek life-something I would surely soon discover. We plotted and speculated as to where I would make my new home. Even my family shared in the excitement, throwing in little rush tips here and there. By the time I returned to Dallas, I was primed for the process.

The minute I walked into my dorm and joined the other freshman rushees, my life was no longer my own. For the duration of rush, I (and approximately 600 other girls) belonged to Panhellenic, the governing body of the sorority system. During that week, a representative from Panhellenic was stationed on each freshman floor and became, as they say, “one of us.” She ate with us, slept with us, counseled us, calmed our fears, answered our questions, adjusted our skirts, zipped our dresses, escorted us to the parties, told us when to socialize, when to smile. She made sure none of us fraternized-uttered anything past “hello”-with any sorority members (we were even requested to limit our conversations to immediate family members and other rushees). She offered her sympathy and her shoulder to cry on whenever someone returned from an invitation session having learned that such-and-such sorority had not asked her back for the next day’s activities. She assured us daily that it would all be over soon. Not soon enough-and yet, too soon – for me.

Rush. I can think of no more appropriate adjective to describe the week’s activities. Traditionally, the events begin with 10 (one per sorority house) 30-minute “open” parties spread across two days to which every rushee is invited. But due to a major ice storm, our rush parties were delayed a day, and all 10 were crammed into one afternoon. This was followed by a sorority “cutting session,” when the members of each house voted on which girls would be invited back for the next round of parties. The next morning, written invitations were extended (actually, we received computer printouts), and rushees either “accepted” or “regretted” invitations until their selections had been narrowed to six houses. Many girls’ selections were narrowed for them.

Then came six 50-minute parties packed into one exhausting day, followed by another heavier cutting session and the extension of fewer invitations-and the inevitable breaking of hearts as the numbers dwindled to about 450 girls. Four-party night was next, followed by yet another cutting session, the extension of even fewer invitations and still more heartaches. Then, when nerves were stretched almost beyond their breaking point, came the all-important “pref” night, when each rushee attended only two 50-minute parties. At this point, the sorority skits got serious, the sorority girls got sentimental and the rushees got teary-eyed with joy and longing and fear and desperation and the need to survive the final cut.

I’ll admit, what I know of pref night, I know only secondhand from friends. I dropped out of rush after four-party night. I don’t remember many specifics about the parties I did attend. I spent most of the week in a semicatatonic state of culture shock. I simply was not prepared for what I was to encounter. Standing out in front of the sorority houses elbow-to-elbow with 50 or 60 other girls in near-freezing weather waiting for the okay to go inside and have a hundred or so other girls scrutinize me from head to toe was not my idea of a good time. Sorority rush reminded me, quite frankly, of an extremely well-choreographed cattle drive.

Once we were led inside the house, we became participants in a sort of synchronized silent auction (is she a “yea” or a “nay”?) conducted by the sorority girls. As each rushee was herded into the house, she was tagged by an awaiting member, who then weaved her in and out of the various clusters of members and rushees, all engaging in various states of nonstop empty chatter. Hullo. I’m Polly. What’s your name? What a lovely dress you’re wearing! Isn’t the weather dreadful? What’s your major? I’m in the B-School. Have you met Suzy? That was Suzy’s cue to change partners and start the whole cycle again.

Never in my life had I been forced to appear quaint and cute to so many people for such extended periods of time. For a while, I considered writing down my vital statistics (name, major, hometown, grade-point, classification, hobbies, campus activities) and then just handing each girl I met the sheet of paper, feigning laryngitis. Face it, I told myself, You’re the pits at small talk. So take the easy way out. Fake it! From what I saw, that seemed to be the key to success. But somehow I knew I could never pull it off. When I’m stranded in a roomful of unfamiliar faces, I don’t shine, I shrink. I’d much rather sit alone in a corner and observe everyone else swapping small talk than face five minutes alone with a stranger. But I devised a simple enough solution: I would stare blankly at the girls’ faces and smile and nod and completely tune them out-as they probably did me. Looking back, I certainly wouldn’t blame them if they did. I had about as much personality as a number-two lead pencil.

If you were the outgoing type and were able to get past the initial superficiality, this was the perfect opportunity to get to know a lot of girls that you otherwise might not have an opportunity to meet. But that was not my goal; for me it was simply a question of whether or not 1 would survive the whole process. I didn’t. In fact, I bombed at almost every house I entered. Rush, I learned, was not designed for introverts, especially insecure ones. Rush is for people who thrive on entertaining, on mingling and mixing, on small talk and happy patter. For people who love crowds. I hate crowds.

So why did I even go through rush? I still ask myself that question every now and then. A lot of it has to do with parental and peer pressure and the degree of importance placed on the Greek system at SMU. Everyone is expected to go through rush.



WHEN I FIRST entered SMU, I thought I had a lot going for me. I’d been a part of all the right groups in high school, I’d made good grades, I’d been senior class treasurer. Big deal. Everyone I knew at SMU had some claim to fame back home, wherever that was. Not only that, but a lot of people there seemed to have always gotten just about everything they had ever wanted. Maybe that’s one reason so many kids at SMU never consider not joining a sorority or fraternity: It is the next logical step on the road to the American dream. At SMU, almost everybody was a somebody during high school. But even in a system of somebodies, there have to be some nobodies. For the first time in my life, I became a nobody. It destroyed me.

Immediately after rush, several of the girls on my freshman floor who-by choice or by chance-had not pledged a sorority formed our own mock sorority: Kappa Upsilon Tau, affectionately known as KUT. Like all sororities, KUT met for dinner and meeting on Mondays, preferably off-campus at Humperdink’s or Friday’s. It really didn’t matter where, anyplace was better than eating in the school cafeteria with all the other “losers.” Nobody ate in the school cafeteria on Mondays. And, like sororities, we selected “big sisters” and “little sisters”; we even had our own appropriate symbol-a pair of scissors.

KUT may sound catty to you-and maybe it was-but it kept me sane that semester. Whenever sorority activities got particularly intense (especially around initiation time, when everything in a pledge’s life is somehow connected to her sorority) we’d all get together and plan some activity of our own. Most of us shared little in common other than the fact that none of us had pledged a sorority. But that was enough for the time being; at least we had each other. Forming KUT was my way of fighting back. It salvaged what little self-esteem I had left after the humiliation of rush. And as a member of KUT, I belonged-maybe not to an established group, but to something.

A lot of girls who go through rush at SMU and don’t pledge discover that the pressure is just too intense and that they won’t be happy there unless they belong to a sorority. On my floor alone, more than half the girls who didn’t pledge transferred at some point after rush. I considered it. But deep down (and several years later), I realized that it was the Greek system itself-not just the one at SMU-that was wrong for me. But as a lonely, rejected freshman, I was blind to that fact. I couldn’t see that, like all systems, Greek life is not for everyone. I didn’t realize that, for me, joining a sorority would have meant sacrificing my own identity (which I had yet to uncover) for that of my sorority. All I knew then was that to my peers, I was unacceptable.

I know now that KUT was mostly a diversionary tactic for me that semester. It kept my mind preoccupied with the delusion that I was in a sorority until the rest of me was ready to face the fact that I wasn’t. It did the job well. When I returned in August to begin my sophomore year, I had left behind much of the bitterness and resentment that pulled at my heart every time 1 encountered a cool, distant sorority girl. I also had left behind KUT, my security blanket. I was ready, I thought, to face life as an “independent.”

It wasn’t as tough as I had expected. My closest friends were in sororities and tried to make me feel like “one of them.” I think that’s how I managed to endure the endless procession of parties and functions, philanthropies and formals that are sorority life. And sometimes, when we were out having a good time, I’d even forget that I wasn’t in a sorority. Those were our finest moments -when it didn’t matter to them or to me that I wasn’t really their “sister.”

It was because of those friends that I decided to brave rush again during my sophomore year. It seemed to me that as long as I remained outside that close-knit circle, there would always be a fine line that separated us; they could never really understand what it was like to be excluded, and I could never really understand what it was like to be included. But I caught frequent enough glimpses of sorority life (I spent a lot of time with them at the house and at their functions) to see the special bond that drew them together and kept my friends and me apart. As much as I disliked certain aspects of the sorority system, I still wanted to experience that closeness.

So, a little less unsure of myself and a tad wiser to the ways of the system, I plunged into rush again that January. It wasn’t nearly as intimidating for me the second time around. I now lived in the up-perclass quad surrounded by already-Greek or confirmed-independent sophomores, juniors and seniors, which meant that I didn’t have several hundred girls to whom I felt I must constantly compare myself. During my freshman year, dressing for a rush party had involved as much ceremony as most weddings. First, we’d pick out what we thought was the perfect outfit, then we’d submit our selection for approval to at least half the girls on the floor. Then, once we saw how great everyone else looked, we’d change at least three more times. Many girls were dressed to the nines -bedecked in their best designer dresses, most-sparkling jewels and, some, in their full-length furs. And even though I frequently felt way out of my league, I had flaunted my finest right there beside them. But I had none of that pressure to contend with this year. I was on my own.

And since I wasn’t intent on becoming a sorority girl (I just wanted to join my friends), I exerted little energy at the other houses. I walked through them with blinders on; I barely even heard the names of the girls to whom I was introduced. I was sure I would soon be joining my friends. But, once again, I was cut. And this time, I knew I would never be Greek. It was time to reevaluate my life.

After the spring semester began, there was a certain strain between my friends and me. We never spoke of rush or of my being cut, but every now and then phrases such as “the new pledges” and “this weekend’s formal” and “next Friday’s mixer” would just sort of pop out, flustering them and depressing me. I couldn’t handle the awkwardness of it all, so I withdrew -not just from those friends but from SMU in general. I lost all interest in the few campus activities that are not Greek-oriented. I immersed myself in my major: art.

But that plan failed miserably, too. I had no hopes of intermingling with the art crowd; I wasn’t nearly creative or abstract-minded enough for them. And much worse, I wasn’t that great an artist, which – for someone who had vowed to become an artist since kindergarten -was a pretty traumatic thing to have to face. It took another shaky semester and a whole lot of pain for that to sink in.

I grew up a lot that year. First, I changed my major. Then I found another niche for myself and made some new friends. I still wasn*t very comfortable in that crowd, either, but I didn’t know where else to turn, so I tried to make myself believe that I belonged. But before long, it became quite clear that 1 didn’t. My life reached a new low.

Then, I finally buried my pride and found my way back to my old -and as they proved -true sorority friends, who showed me that even though I had temporarily deserted them, they hadn’t forgotten me. They showed me that they didn’t give a damn that I wasn’t in a sorority; I was their friend, and I was welcome wherever they went. They introduced me to some of their other friends, who, in turn, became my close friends, too. At last, I broke down the barrier that separates the Greek from the non-Greek, the insider from the outsider -which, I finally learned, doesn’t have to exist at all. We put it there, all of us who feel compelled to label everything we encounter. Having discovered this, I set about making the most of my final days at SMU. And, in the end, we had a fine senior year, my old/new friends and I.

I entered SMU scared, spoiled, selfish and insecure. People tell me I’ve changed since then and, in many ways, I have. I know myself a lot better; I’ve toughened up a bit; I don’t take as much for granted. I have the sorority system to thank for that. It opened my eyes to the world of the outsider, a sometimes lonely but vital place to which the perpetual insider will never journey. It made me take a good, hard look at myself-a person with whom I wasn’t at all happy -and do something about “me.”

I was lucky. I survived the system intact. Yes, I was a part of-and yet, apart from – SMU for most of my four years there. But, no, I’m not sorry I was not in a sorority. My only regret is that the two worlds – Greek and non-Greek -too often remain “independent” of each other.