In the fall of 1973, I began my first year of college at the University of Kentucky. I was happy and excited to begin the timid steps of adulthood by moving out of the family home into a dormitory. I believed that joining a sorority was in the cards for me to bootstrap my fledging social life into something concrete. I had belonged to social clubs in junior high and high school, so a sorority was the logical starting point. A mature 18-year-old might have envisioned that it would further a sense of community and leadership, but I was mostly interested in meeting good-looking fraternity boys.
Recruitment took place the week before the start of the fall semester. Rush was a systematic matchmaking process, whereby students took part in introductory events and were invited back – or not – by the chapters that believed they were a good fit. The goal was to be accepted into a top tier sorority, one with a well-established reputation, a charming southern Chapter house, and popular and pretty members.
I do not recall much about my first-round visits to sororities, but I remember choosing my outfit carefully. I wore blue jeans and platform sandals paired with a floral print top with an empire-waist belt that tied in the back. I thought I looked cute, but I was vaguely aware that it did not meet the dress code. Kentucky casual attire for young women was preppy but feminine, and certain brands were in vogue, like Lady Bug and Villager. Those labels were mostly out of reach for me financially, but I had clothes I liked. But first impressions count, and I was not dressed for success.
Initially, recruits were allowed to visit all chapters, in a busy and blurry series of parties. The first-round events were followed by invitation-only, themed parties. I was devastated to learn that I had been eliminated by every single high-profile sorority that I had hoped to join. But I stoically attended the second-round parties of the few organizations that had extended invitations to me. I remember one in which the theme was “girly girls disguised as tomboys.” I wore a sideways baseball cap and chewed bubble gums, and I recall someone taking my picture. Afterwards, I was anxious to see if I had made the cut for a final social event.
And then came the telephone call.
I received a phone call the day following the Tomboy party from someone I did not know from a chapter to which I had not been invited. After introducing herself, the sorority member asked me a question about my high school best friend, who was also going through rush. She wanted to know what my friend’s father did for a living. I replied that he was a professor at the university. The caller thanked me, and the call ended.
I was filled with confusion, outrage, and more than a bit of resignation. I knew in a heartbeat that I did not have what it took to be a popular pledge of a sought-after sorority chapter. Sororities touted their desire to recruit polished young women with strong academic records, exemplary moral character, and community involvement. I did not stand out in any of those categories; I was, at best, a borderline candidate. But when you added in the fact that I was a fatherless girl with no social standing and no family sorority legacy, I felt I was doomed. I was just an unsuspecting teenager stumbling into adulthood with no concept of where to step next and with little chance of receiving a bid.
With a heavy but strong-willed heart, I dropped out of recruitment and resigned myself to being a dorm-girl college student. I was not going to be attending fraternity parties, Greek life mixers, and sisterhood bonding sessions.
I look back on that decision with curiosity but without regret. Did I give up more than I gained? At the time, I had complicated emotions, shame feathered with indignation. I was proud that I demonstrated a personal protest about a patriarchal Greek system that judged its members, in part, on family socioeconomic ranking and occupational status of their fathers. But I also gave up the chance to be an infinitesimal agent of change.
I view my young life choices with compassion and peace. Every decision I made had a subtle but extant influence on my life, and the beauty of maturity is appreciating the learning gained by that.
I loved my college experience, and my social life did not suffer for one minute. It turned out that cheap, fruity wine, cute boys, and parties were all part of the equation - whether or not a Greek letter was one of its variables.