I sat in the dim basement with fifty other college girls dressed all in black, a sacred little pin gleaming atop our hearts. I exchanged glances with the “back row rebels” while the President—a senior whose thighs were the same circumference as her ankles—spoke to us like a pissed-off third grade teacher at a podium in front of a banner that read “WE LIVE FOR EACH OTHER.”
“It has come to our attention that certain sisters have been forgetting to act like ladies on campus,” said the Pres. “This is not good for visibility, especially if it gets back to the Panhellenic Council. One of you let a boy into our kitchen Friday evening, which is strictly forbidden. That person is hereby called to a meeting with Standards, and we will evaluate your member status moving forward.”
The person was me. It was the beginning of my junior year, and to accessorize my “Pin Attire,” I wore a candy necklace and sported a punk rock pixie cut, black in the back and bleached in the front. This was technically my third semester as an active sorority member, and I was becoming increasingly disenchanted with this whole system, which I felt duped into joining.
My Cult Personality Profile
I was certainly not someone you’d associate with sorority material. My fishnet shirt and spiked collar, while not a direct result of having grown up in fundamentalist Christianity, were certainly ripples of its disempowering rules forbidding participation in the “wicked ways of the world.” That rhetoric never made me feel close to God (I’m pretty sure it wasn’t meant to). Once I was out of its physical range, it no longer had any pull on me. My upbringing had taught me never to question anything, yet at college I was being asked to question everything and to write essays reasoning it all out. I had been taught there was only one way to get to Heaven, and that I must fear Hell at all costs, but through my studies of world religions, through visits to mosques and temples and synagogues and in-depth study of the Bible, I began understand the story of it all, to take what I needed and understand the rest to be man-made tales invented to control me. Me, the uncontrollable.
I still had characteristics that made me a cult target, though. Namely, I had a hunger for experience and an interest in all types of people. I did things my own way, but I was open, and I was experimental by default. This sometimes got me into less-than-savory situations, which is how I ended up a pawn in the “Greek” system at my college.
Step 1: The Target is Identified
I came into freshman year with my Punk-o-rama CDs, Chuck Taylor hi-tops, an electric guitar, and an open smile, eager to meet kindred spirits. I didn’t have money and I didn’t need friends. My freshman hallmates were the best friends I could ask for. Two of them were artsy punks who accompanied me on every adventure, and the other two were studious weirdos who I stayed up late talking to. I was totally myself around them. We spent all our time together, including most weekends, when we often dressed in minimal Lycra, tottering in cheap stilettos, dancing basement to basement on Greek Row until the wee hours. There, we were welcome interlopers. Nobody but other freshmen really engaged us, which made me feel uptight. (It didn’t help that I was a rare non-drinker in deeply unhealthy binge culture.) Sorority girls, by contrast, were easy, playing beer pong with the frat boys, effortlessly laughing like old friends, then disappearing with them upstairs. I clocked the power in that.
September through January, they walked in gaggles to the dining hall in their matching shirts with Greek letters across the chests, hanging up homemade butcher paper signs advertising their latest “philanthropy” event. These girls all looked the same to me: mousy, “normal,” no distinguishing characteristics. The only intrigue they held for me was their closeness with the fraternity boys, who comprised more than 90 percent of the males on campus.
Spring semester came, and with it “Rush Week,” or recruitment for new Greek members. Suddenly, sorority girls were paying attention to me. It was never anything deep, just warm little chat from a Tri-Delt I had class with, a joke to make me feel included from the Kappa co-star in the play. There was much buzz around Rush Week; all my hallmate besties were planning on doing it “just for shits and giggles,” and the mainstream girls who lived next to us were already certain of the sorority they hoped to pledge. (“Pledge” is what you become when you accept their invitation to join.)
Our Resident Advisor was a “Rho Gamma”—an upperclass sorority member who has taken a leave from her chapter to become one of the recruitment helpers—and she hosted an informational meeting to tell us what Rush Week would be like. “Tuesday,” she said, “is an open house, where you can just go visit each house and meet the sisters. This is informal; you can dress however you like and there will be snacks. If you made a good impression on a certain sorority, you’ll get a card under your door from them that night, and you’ll be invited back for the following night. Wednesday you’ll need to dress up a little more if you’re invited back. It’s called Philanthropy Night, and it will be a little more intimate. You’ll work with a couple of sisters on a craft while you learn about the philanthropy that is associated with that sorority. Again, if they think you’re a good fit, you will get another card slipped under your door to invite you back for Thursday, which is Pref Night.”
Here she got all reverent, placing a hand over her heart. “This is such a special night, you guys. I still remember how special my Pref Night was, and how I just knew my sorority was the place for me. I won’t spoil Pref Night for you; it’s a really big deal to get invited, and this is how you’ll make your decision for where to go. Now, I will be here to help you through the process, and I have to warn you: do not discuss your impressions with your friends. Everyone is going to have a different experience, and you need to choose what’s right for you, not them.”
This whole idea fascinated me. I had never been inside the sorority houses, as only the fraternities were allowed to hold parties. I wanted to see how these people lived, and understand if there was any kind of non-sexual motivation to walk around labeled with letters from a foreign alphabet, so I decided to join my hallmates and attend night one of rush: open house.
We all walked together down to Greek Row, laughing and making fun of ourselves for this stunt. I entered each of the four sorority houses with a smile, assessing their living room decor while I indulged the tens of sisters who seemed strangely excited to be chatting me up. Unlike the fraternity houses, these houses did not smell of piss and beer, but of candles from Bath & Body Works. These were not scattered with video games and tattered leather furniture, but decorated by an interior designer, with aesthetic mirrors and faux flowers in vases. Ten lucky students got to live in this impressive house, rather than sharing a moldy dorm room like I was. I mentally categorized each sorority as I met the ladies of each house: one was for the stereotypical white, blonde, rich, and popular type: I’ll call them Daddy’s Little Diamonds, or ΔΛΔ. One was for the sporty party girls who were also very popular: I’ll call them the Sporty Drunks, or ΣΔ. One was comprised of more theater and arty types; they were cool and could take or leave the boys: I’ll call them the Bi Arty Players, or BAΠ. The last sorority had only just been chartered at our campus two years ago, though nationally they were the oldest. I saw them as the underdogs; the Bad News Bears (BNB) of chapters, since they were decidedly not the ones going upstairs with the frat boys at parties.
I had not gone out of my way to fit in at any of the open houses; I looked like a Hot Topic poster child, per usual. Yet, at every house, I was being treated like a VIP. I hadn’t anticipated feeling like everyone was so interested in me. I ate it all up. That night in our dorm, my roomie dared to break the rules of Rush, telling me how much she loved BNB. I thought they were nerdy but endearing, objectively the least attractive and most studious (though there were a couple gorgeous and/or cool outliers). They seemed like they really prided themselves on being “classy,” and didn’t party outwardly like the others did. I still didn’t see myself joining any of these groups, but I definitely wanted to continue this anthropological study.
The next morning, I was the only one on my hall to wake up to invitations from all four sororities. My hallmates were tight-lipped, but they indicated they were quite certain about which house interested them. I was surprised that even my most alternative friends were truly considering joining the Bi Arty Players.
Step 2: Love Bombed
As the week went on, we returned to these houses every night, dressing fancier and talking to different members each time. Back at the dorm, our Rho Gamma would have a mandatory debriefing meeting for anyone in our hall who was participating in recruitment. She would console girls who were upset because they didn’t get invited back to their dream sorority, telling them that another would be the perfect fit. She would assuage those who were crying because they hadn’t gotten invited back anywhere at all by telling them they could try again next year.
By Pref Night, my hall friends and I had split. My two fun punk friends were only going back to BAΠ, and my two calm sober friends were only going back to BNB. As for me, I had continued getting invited to all the houses, and was still intrigued by the experiment. The Bi Arty Players were talking to me like I was already one of them, as if it was a given. The Bad News Bears, however, were especially aggressive in professing their love. A junior member, Cass, took a special interest in me: she did not fit in with the rest of the “classy” nerds, nor did she have the physique or demeanor of a stereotypical sorority sister. She played guitar and had a great sense of humor. I had never noticed her until she began to seek me out especially, looking deep into my eyes and saying things like, “We need more people like you,” and telling me about other “punk” / interesting / funny BNBs who I would just love. She introduced me around as if I was a celebrity, and the other Bad News Bears fawned accordingly.
“You can only pick two to go back to for Pref Night, because it’s a long night and they can only invite people they are really serious about becoming pledges,” our Rho Gamma said that night, back on our hall.
Since I still had all four to choose from, for the sake of experiment, I picked the two that befuddled me the most: the Daddy’s Little Diamonds and the Bad News Bears. The other two, I felt pretty sure of. The ΣΔs were silly and fun, nothing deeper; and the BAΠs felt more like me, some of them I could see myself actually being friends with.
Pref Night was insanely serious. At both the ΔΛΔ house and the BNB house, the sisters all waited for us in a line, all dressed up and wearing their most meaningful smiles. We filed into the dim living room where our names were called one by one. At this point, we were paired with an older member of the sorority who led us with awkward ceremony to get a dessert (though they did not), and then sat down with us at a candlelit table. It was hella uncomfortable: one foot away, as if we were on a romantic date, an older, desertless, girl I hardly knew was forcing intimate details of her sorority story on me while she watched me scarf tiramisu. The Daddy’s Little Diamond girl was a gorgeous pre-med, and I think she sensed I was just here as an observer. At the BNB house, though, the sister I was paired with was Cass, who gazed longingly into my eyes as I horfed cheesecake, giving me the most emotional hard-sell I’ve ever been witness to, actually tearing up as she told me of this amazing sisterhood and how, “You are a BNB. I know you are. We couldn’t believe you came back to our Pref Night. Everyone was so excited; they thought for sure you’d go to the Bi Arty Players. If we don’t see your name on our list on bid day, everyone in this sorority is going to cry.”
Back at the dorm after this heavy evening, we were handed our “Bid Cards” by the Rho Gamma, who was policing us, lest we share any impressions with our unpaid, authentic friends. I met the eyes of my two sweet nerd friends, who said with their eyes that they were choosing Bad News Bears. I looked to my favorite weird girls, who somehow let me know they were joining the Bi Arty Players. At this point, I’d be the only one on my hall not participating in the next few weeks of membership activities! I was already this far in; I figured I’d just go ahead and join one to see what it was all about. I’d go with my artsy girls; that felt natural.
I turned in my Bid Card, and Rho Gamma said, “BAΠ? But you didn’t go to their Pref Night.”
“Yeah, but I already know them. I just wanted to see what the others were about, and you said we could only go back to two.”
“Well, you probably shouldn’t choose a sorority whose Pref Night you didn’t attend. They most likely won’t have you on their Bid List!”
“You didn’t tell me this before,” I said.
I thought about it. I was always going to be friends with my cool artsy friends, because we hung out every day. The Bad News Bears seemed super sincere. Maybe I should give them a chance. What could I lose besides a couple hundred bucks? Maybe it was fate; maybe they saw who I really was, and maybe they knew we would be best friends. That’s why they they wanted me SO badly! Well, they were going to get me. I turned in my Bid Card with them at the top.
Right off the bat, it felt like a square-peg-round-hole situation. But the lovebombing that continued kept me wondering if these relationships would eventually yield returns for what I was paying. Every day that first week, I’d get special notes slipped under my door telling me how loved I was by these people who had only just met me, how they couldn’t wait to get to know me better, how awesome Bid Day was going to be, how much I was going to love being a pledge. I’d get packages in my post office box: little homemade trinkets with our sorority letters on them, hand-me-down shirts, or candy. They loved to give candy. My favorite art-punk friends next door now had their own language, and I didn’t like feeling ostracized. My roomie and I also had our own new language, based on symbols and sayings that meant nothing to me. While the BAΠ experience felt from the outside like friends irreverently sharing some tongue-in-cheek rituals, our sorority was full of wide-eyed devotees to every acronym, rule, and creed established by our 1851 founders.
Step 3: The Prizes are Dangled
They kept building up Bid Day as this amazing experience, so I waited gamely. When the day came, I was greeted with a gloomy white sky. I felt like a fat, gross, misfit, separate from my cool artsy friends who were going to be with their own kind. My two fellow Bad News Bears hallmates were excited, and I tried not to kill their buzz. We walked together to join our new sisters.
Greek Row was abuzz. The frat houses had speakers blaring and college boys roving around in different states of inebriation, even at 9 a.m. The front yards of the sorority houses were filled with girls doing synchronized dances, wearing their letters along with silly hats and feather boas, taking photo after photo with different combinations of smiling sisters doing custom hand gestures. My two BNB hall friends jumped right in. I tried to look excited as these people I didn’t know threw their arms around us, saying, “The babies are here!! The babies are here!!”
Everyone I talked to kept telling me how great the next thing was going to be. How awesome it was that we were about to go hard on our New Member Education, learning every secret of this secret society. Random sisters approached me as if we were lovers in a past life.
“I can’t believe you’re here!”
“You would not believe the crazy cheers this morning when we found out you were on our list!”
“I can’t wait until Initiation. You are going to love the ceremony. It’s so amazing. I swear it’s not scary.”
“Our first formal is going to be so fun with you guys as the littles!”
One thing we were supposed to be super excited about was finding out who our “big sisters” were. As you probably guessed, mine was Cass, the doting Junior who had teared up while watching me eat cheesecake. She said “We’re family! You’re going to love your Grand-big—she is so cool.” But then we didn’t really have much to talk about after that. When I finally met my “Grand-big,” she was indeed so cool. So cool that she lived off campus, listened to MXPX, and didn’t participate in much relating to this group. Everyone else was getting lavaliers (necklace with the letters on it) from their Grand-big, and no matter how much time passed, I felt like a stranger in my “family.”
I started to notice how my “family” interacted with the other prissy rule-followers of BNB at events and meetings: they didn’t. They seemed more like mascots for the group: ignored on serious matters, but deployed to sing or be funny at campus events to showc ase how “cool” BNB was. I did like the two sisters I was assigned to, but I started to think they had wanted me here for one reason and one reason only: they knew I was also not going to enjoy this experience, and they wanted another person on their small team.
But It’s Not a Cult!
Yeah, yeah. It’s not. You can leave. There’s nothing inherently dangerous, I guess. But at this point, I’ve done enough independent research to know that, just like multi-level marketing schemes and controlling relationships, sororities employ culty tactics, which is why I ended up staying for a year and a half in an experiment that I wasn’t even enjoying. And I’m not blaming anyone but myself, really.
Secrets will be revealed, along with more cult tactics…in PART TWO!
More from my college years:
Interesting. Gonna see part 2 now. Thanks.
This is amazing