When I went through Rush Week as a freshman at Bradley University, I did a little experiment.

At 18, I was big on messing with people and playing little games with their institutions. I've mentioned before how in high school my guidance counselor and I had arranged for someone from the Citadel to visit our school, only to show up and find little ol' ovary infested me. So since I was still fresh with that kind of hubris, it only made sense to tinker a bit with another institution, one that, by Day Three (I think) of Rush Week, made me a little sick to my stomach.

I'd rushed in the first place because my new friends on my dorm floor rushed. It was as simple as that. I didn't want to be left out; I'd learned my lesson in 1st grade when I'd initially declined to join the Brownies, only to beg them to let me in later.

During the process, you "drop" and choose houses you're interested in, and they, you. I'd been dropped from one house the entire time; the rest of the houses I had to drop on my own. On the advice of my new friends, I was instructed which houses were the "better" ones to drop, a designation I found odd since our introductions to all of these people were terribly brief and littered with really stilted, forced conversations. By Day Three, I was faced with three sororities from which to visit and continue this madness.

And then something happened. I'd asked the rush chairwoman - Rho Chi, I think they were called - to go over this booklet you were given at the start of Rush Week, and answer for me why it was that we were required to dress up in particular ways for each day. Day Three really irked me, as the language and the photo examples we were given seemed ... vapid. Why did it matter whether we wore jeans or a dress? Why did they need to see how I looked in a skirt if the sororities were all about academics, charity and friendship?

I don't, 13 years later, recall her exact answer, other than she informed me it "... really wasn't a big deal" but maybe I should wear that cute babydoll dress to be safe. Oh the early 90s and your woefully bad fashion missteps.

When I walked out of my dorm the next morning to meet my fellow rushees, at least three of them gaped at me in horror. I'd worn the yellow, flowery babydoll dress, sure. But I paired it with a pair of black tights. Really black tights. They might have even been a little dusty, too. It was awful. I looked as though I didn't have the sense God gave me.

I don't think I need to tell you that every single last house dropped me that day.

During that following year, as luck would have it, the majority of my friends were all members of one particular house on campus, one of the houses that dropped me, and begged me to pledge as a sophomore. They actually all came tearing after me upon the conclusion of Rush Week as to understand why I didn't. "We were going to make you a pledge!!! We looked for you every day! What happened?" What happened was that I was made an editor of the school paper that year, and for as much as I loved my friends, being a part of that particular element of student life made me a little weary. I ended up living in that sorority's off-campus house my senior year (a travesty at best) and to this day one of those very girls remains a close and dear friend. My sister pledged to one of the houses that dropped me and it was a great experience for her.

I'm not trying to make a sweeping indictment; just sharing my personal experience. I'd had a hunch, acted on it, and it turned out as I'd suspected. Thirteen years later, I can somewhat understand why they'd have all turned me down for my outfit, at least because of the aforementioned lack of sense. Still?

This shit, as a result, doesn't surprise me.

How ya like your reputation now, Delta Zeta?

Posted by Erin at 01:59 PM | filed under: Odds and ends

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