If you want to find out how I ended up in this situation and the players involved, you can read the first part of this story here:
If you’d rather listen instead of read, here you go:
Indoctrination Not Found
Bid Day had been anticlimactic, but I maintained a positive attitude. I said nothing of my disappointment as I sat in a circle of well-behaved, excited new Bad News Bears Pledges, rehashing what fun they had meeting their new sisters: “It felt like I was running home, into the arms of my new family,” said one girl, and the others agreed. I felt no such thing, and I would have felt completely out of place in this moment were it not for Sari and Jess, my two good friends from my Freshman hall. Even though they were quiet and conscientious while I was over-the-top, colorful, and loud, we had bonded over so many late night talks, and they made me feel seen and loved for being myself, while I felt some of the other good-girl pledges eyeing me judgmentally. I hoped I’d find more steady, true friends like Sari and Jess in BNB, which is why I was still here in this basement, attending this New Member Education meeting with our pledge class, finally learning a few of the secrets of the secret society that was the Bad News Bears.
“You guys have to be well-versed on this stuff by Initiation night,” said our New Member Coordinator. “There will be a test! And after the ceremony, you’ll be a full-fledged member…If you make it out alive!”
“I’m scared!” Jess whispered to me, laughing nervously. “What do you think they’re going to make us do?”
I’d heard all kinds of stories about people having to get naked, or drink blood, or sleep in a coffin or something, but I didn’t want to scare Jess, so I just said, “I don’t know. But I doubt it’s that bad.”
The secrets we were learning, however, were far from Skull-and-Bones-caliber. I had taken the culty bait when BNB identified me as a target, love-bombed me, and then dangled the prizes, so this was a bit of a let-down. Why were they letting up on the cult tactics? We were supposed to be at the “Indoctrination” stage! I was supposed to be deprived of sleep and not allowed to use the bathroom, getting broken down and then rebuilt with the dogma of this secret society! But that was not so: there was no brainwashing to speak of, only memorization. What we were learning was less of an all-encompassing new life philosophy and more like a history lesson mixed with the kind of official stuff middle schoolers make up when they start a club.
We read and took notes on the story of the original chapter: the colors, the mascots, the motto, the creed, and the values it all stood for when it had been started in the 1800s. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this was a little tame. We were added to the group email list, where every member seemed to be required to sign off “Love and loyally.” I held out for Initiation, which loomed large, just as Pref Night and Bid Day had.
Isolation Not Forced
If this had been a real cult, I’d have been forced into isolation by now—no talking to outsiders! I’d have needed my sisters because they’d be my only option for friendship, and by and by, our perceptions would get more skewed. But the cult antics were truly junior varsity, seeing as how I was still hanging out more with my Bi Arty Players friends than my new sisters, not being policed at all on what we discussed.
Through a mouthful of Oreos one evening in my BAΠ pals’ room during a commercial break from Joe Millionaire, I asked, “Are you guys having to, like, study, for your initiation? We have all these facts and mottos and stuff we are having to learn,”
“Haha yeah, we have study groups,” my friend Beth piped up from the giant beanbag, “But it’s not super serious.”
“Man, there are some intense people in my sorority,” I said. “I like my big sister, and Sari and Jess, but a lot of them are so serious about this stuff, and I just can’t take it so seriously.”
“Yeah, you know how I went to Pref Night at BNB?” said Raina. “The girl they partnered me with made me clutch one of their pins like it was a lifeline. I think she might have prayed? I was like, BYEEE!”
“Oof. Makes sense,” I laughed.
“Yeah,” said Carly, who had also gone to BNB’s Pref Night. “It was so emotional at their Pref. I really questioned going there instead of BAΠ, but I’m so glad I didn’t. It felt kinda gross. No offense, Ging. There are some cool girls in there, but the one I got that night wasn’t one of them.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
Leveraging Loyalty
A really juicy cult like NXIVM will get you to pledge your loyalty by branding you or providing blackmail fodder like nude pics. A cult like EST and its future iterations leverage loyalty by getting members to share harrowing details of their lives so they can later use it against them. Even fraternities haze their members in freaky and demeaning ways, because trauma creates bonds. The BNB Initiation was being built up as a ceremony we’d never forget, so I was prepared.
The night came, and we weren’t allowed to talk. We had to dress all in black, and, like Pref Night, the sisters who greeted us at the house seemed stoic. They silently brought us to the basement, where we were blindfolded and taken in small groups through a labyrinth made of curtains. I wondered how Jess was doing back there, and if it would hurt when they pierced my hand with the tip of a knife.
Once we reached the end of the maze, they guided us to kneel on pillows, and the blindfolds were taken off. Above us stood the officers in angelic white robes, smiling and speaking in antiquated language, as if dubbing us into knighthood. We signed our names in a book, they sang a little a capella chant with our Greek letters in it, and we got our pins. That was it; no blood or nudity. The only collateral that was asked of me was the signing of my name, which signified the pledge I was making to the sisterhood. Oh, that and a couple hundred dollars per semester.
Sari and Jess and I all laughed about it back in the dorm, doing creepy impersonations of the little song while we studied.
Keeping Control
All the hardcore cults keep running smoothly because they know how to maintain control. There has to be a regimented path you’re all walking together—a shared goal. Ideally you also want to offer the members something they can’t get elsewhere.
After Initiation, we were no longer “the babies,” we were full-fledged members, so the gifts and overzealous treatment abruptly stopped, replaced with mandatory meetings every Sunday evening at 6. My friends and I walked en masse to Greek Row, where we split off into our respective sorority houses for the weekly meeting. It was very dull: officers taking turns speaking, votes with “aye” or “nay,” discussions of “standards” and upcoming events.
I noticed Sari and Jess had found some new, real friends within the walls of our organization, and I had not. I look back now and realize, they had classes or other clubs with a lot of these girls, which is probably how they got to know them. I, on the other hand, was usually in the theater, or with my gross degenerate boyfriend, which left no time to even get to know anyone that didn’t live right next to me.
When the meeting ended on Sundays, we resumed life as usual. I met up with my non-BNB besties at the campus restaurant, where we inhaled pints of Ben and Jerry’s, gawked at boys, and made plans for our next punk show, speaking nothing of sororities.
Just when I was wondering if I should leave because it wasn’t a good fit, Jess and I were invited to live in the coveted house on Greek Row, right between two fraternities. Housing in college is not usually so posh, and I did love Jess—one of the most genuine, kind, low-key funny people I knew. I jumped at the chance. The house was in a great location, where we could look out the window and spy on the other sororities and fraternities. It was clean and had a fluffy sectional with a big screen TV in the basement, as well as a kitchen and elegant living room that nobody ever used. The President and other big dawgs didn’t live in the house. In fact, the eight girls who lived in the house were all really nice, despite the fact that I only ever saw them in the hallway. There were silly rules like “no boys in the house,” but I didn’t follow them, and none of my housemates ratted me out.
Recruitee Becomes the Recruiter
All in all, this diet lite cult was proving to be nothing to write home about. It changed nothing in my life except having to attend meetings and giving me access to a nice room. I was quite content until a new year rolled around and it was time to focus on recruiting a new pledge class.
Suddenly I was confronted by a new season: a season of meetings centered around pages of printed photos. Under each photo was a name. These were the “Freshmen Women,” our prospective members, and it had become our ongoing job to surveil them and asses whether or not they were BNB material. Some of them I knew from classes. Each week in the meetings, we were asked for intel on what they were like: how did they present themselves? What kind of students were they? Who did they hang out with?
In an orderly fashion, we judged each girl as if she was onstage at a pageant, even though it was possible none of them even knew we existed.
“Keep in mind: we are looking for more members who are visible on campus.”
“We really need some athletes! Jen is a great candidate. She’s funny, too.”
“I don’t like how she hangs out with the football fraternity. Don’t you think that’s a little hoe-y for a freshman?”
“Cassandra has resting bitch face, but she sits next to me in Anthro and she’s nice.”
“Has anyone ever talked to Jennine?”
“She’s more Daddy’s Little Diamond material, but it’s probably worth getting to know her.”
I don’t know why I was so shocked, but I hadn’t ever thought about what the recruitment aspect would actually look like from this angle. It felt like betrayal to imagine that last year, the Bad News Bears were sitting here with a photo of me, writing little comments in the margins like, “In the fall play. Kind of weird, but likeable. Will probably go with Bi Arty Players.” I remembered how last year, I had abruptly gone from feeling invisible to the “sorority women” to feeling like the object of their affection. Now I knew they’d been watching my every move.
We had to prepare for Rush, which meant we had to make up little musical skits to convince the girls we were cooler than we looked, and that our sisterhood was real. It turned out that I was a musical secret weapon in these displays, called upon to sing silly parody lyrics to well-known pop songs, written and strummed by my own “Big Sis.” I started to feel like a show pony, a shill for something I didn’t fully believe in. I was about to head to London for study abroad, but I stayed on campus during the four days prior for my mandatory participation in Rush. During each day of festivities, from the Open House to the Pref Night, I did my best to feel eager, to shush the voice in my head that said this was creepy and unnecessary.
When it was all over and the hard work was done, we got our list of “the babies” who’d chosen us: the ones we’d been stalking all semester. Our President read the list of names one by one, pausing after each to glance meaningfully at the member she thought would be the most excited. She saved our group favorites for last. The whole group clapped and hooted after their names were called. My big sis was particularly gung ho about the new additions to our small enclave of atypical sorority types—more rebels to aid in the quiet resistance. I felt kind of bad for bringing them into this, but I didn’t have to think long about it. I was heading to England where I could ignore the whole situation for a semester.
No Questions; No Exits
When I returned from abroad, I found it harder to give a fuck about the Bad News Bears. I was no longer living in the house, and after months of freely wandering Bloomsbury alone, I was finding the old meetings and rules stifling.
In my absence a new member had been added to our little group-within-the-group of non-followers. There were about five of us now, smoking weed behind the warehouse and complaining about the bullshit rules being enforced by the pearl-clutchers. One of us was constantly getting singled out like the bad kids in elementary school, for wearing the letters while partying, or letting a boy in the kitchen, or illustrating our event banner in a way that was deemed crude.
When I decided to quit, these girls were massively disappointed. They found out along with all the others, and I’m sure they were upset that I hadn’t told them, but it had been a spur-of-the-moment choice and, to be honest, we never hung out outside BNB.
All week I’d been slaving over three huge assignments, which were due in three different classes on Monday. (I might have been rebellious, but I prided myself on being a good student.) Sunday came too quickly. I spent all day in the computer lab trying to knock out the last essay. 6pm rolled around—meeting time—and I was nowhere near finished. I emailed the top BNB officers to ask if I could miss the meeting. I knew they’d understand, as scholarship was one of their top concerns. However, this is the email I received in return:
Dear Ginger,
As you know, all members must attend weekly chapter meeting. Acceptable excuses for missing events are: 1. Illness (A doctor’s note is required) 2. Death in the family or other family emergency 3. Religious observance 4. Scheduled class conflict 5. Graduate examinations 6. Participation in prescheduled University sports/ clubs, excluding intramurals.Since your absence will not be excused, you will be fined for missing the meeting.
Love and Loyally,
President (Name Redacted)
It was time. I’d had it with these mothafuckin’ rules in this mothafuckin’ group that I didn’t even want to be in. I blazed back a reply to say that I would like to quit the sorority, effective now.
What followed was unexpected, since they’d been so lite on the cult attributes of late. I received a reply email that may as well have been penned by the Mafia for how willing they were to consider “letting” me quit. The President went full cult on me once again, using every trick in the book to try to get me to stay. She told me in no uncertain terms that I would not be able to deactivate. That doing so would require me to go to an executive board meeting and present my case, that I would have to have a meeting with Standards, I would have to pay a huge fine, and I’d have to write the entire chapter a letter, which I’d present along with a return of my pin and any sorority paraphernalia.
Luckily, I didn’t give a crap. “So what are they going to do to me if I refuse to do any of this stuff?” I said to my roomie. “Are they going to kick me out?”
I replied that I would not be paying a fine, because I was no longer a member. I would be henceforth retiring from all events, and it was not my problem. I finished my essay around 3 a.m. and slept, free at last.
It Just Wasn’t for Me
So yes, there were many cult tactics used, but that can be said of a lot of organizations. I can’t pretend it harmed me, being in this group. I can say that it was boring, inconvenient, and largely a waste of time. A lot of people enjoyed it, though. Their experiences were valid, and those who wanted me in it probably did just want my friendship. But for me, the whole thing felt forced and I felt caged. If we had met in more casual circumstances, we might have developed a real friendship.
Still, knowing that I always learn best from experience, I am not too angry at myself for the time I spent exploring what goes on behind the closed Greek doors. Sure, it was inconvenient and ended up pissing some people off. But I am someone who is always learning to negotiate boundaries, and this was one of my first really big boundary wins in the end, even if I could have exited far sooner and with more grace.
I’m still actively friends with my Bi Arty Players girls, and I still occasionally correspond with Jess and Sari. I wonder, after 20 years, what the rest of the Bad News Bears would say about me, the defector…but I don’t wonder enough to ask.
Ha. Nice.
I had no idea you dropped them. But I guess that’s because I was in the other one 😅