by Nathan Holic
And what might he have heard to lead him to this conclusion? I think the worst: Buenos Noches and El Sombrero, cans of Tecate at student meetings, destructed jeans purchased at a New Mexico shopping mall, worn at night in Juarez, worn the next day on a flight to Fresno, worn during every chapter visit while my khaki slacks and silver-black suit remain packed. There is an image in my mind of Charles Washington sleeping until 11 AM at the University of Delaware, legs spilling over the armrest of the living room couch, shoes still on my feet from the night before. Unorthodox? A stolen charter in the backseat of my Explorer, an artifact I was proud of saving from that Illinois chapter house but now can’t admit to anyone that I’ve taken because I never should have gone back the next morning.
“Unorthodox, what does that even mean?” I ask.
“You have a Facebook page, I’m told,” he says. “I’ve never heard of a consultant friend-requesting the chapter presidents.”
“You know about that?”
“I hear everything.”
For weeks, I used the Van Wilder image as my profile picture…probably the reason it took Maria so long to find me, to confirm the page as mine…and although late last night—shaking from a 64-ounce gas station fountain drink I’d finished in fifteen minutes—I changed my privacy settings, there are dozens of images that Dr. Vernon could have found, that all of these Greek Advisors could have found, that even Walter LaFaber could have found in the stupid interval between re-activation and privacy protection, if only they’d searched my name and clicked my page. What have they seen? Hell if I know.
“Who doesn’t have a Facebook page these days?” I ask finally.
“This takes some getting used to, these new mediums,” he says, leans back again. “Five years ago, I thought it was strange when a consultant would text the chapter president to schedule a visit. Five years before that, I thought it odd when consultants set up AOL instant messaging accounts to interact. What’s unorthodox now will be mainstream in months. A good topic for graduate research. But in the meantime, be careful with it. The more knowledge you have, the greater your responsibility.”
“You’re right,” I say, and now I’m thinking of the wall post I received from Sam Anderson early this morning: “Hey, dude, gotta talk about that hazing thing.” I’d been—what had I been doing?—trying to type the report for New Mexico State, that’s right, stuck after only one awkward paragraph, and I hadn’t noticed Sam’s comment for several hours. Later, I deleted it, but still: the comment was there for anyone to see. That hazing thing.
“Have you ever thought of continuing in this profession?” Dr. Vernon asks.
“Consulting?”
“Higher education,” he says. “Student personnel. A career in anything from Greek Life to Residence Life. Bowling Green has an excellent program, you know? What’s your degree?”
“Organizational Communication.”
“Wonderfully vague,” Dr. Vernon says. “Perfect for grad school. With your experience, you could make a tremendous Greek Advisor.”
Usually, the campus Greek Advisor is some kid fresh out of grad school who takes the job with high hopes and endless energy, until fraternity and sorority undergraduates begin ignoring or disregarding him even while he works weekends, late nights, organizing programs for the Greek community, compiling reports for various deans and student-life administrators. Then, twelve months later, the kid will be job-hunting with such panic that you’d think the Greek Advisor office was set to explode. Very rarely is the position as prestigious as Dr. Vernon’s appears to be. Very rarely do they write books. A career as a Greek Advisor? That can’t be what my life has led to: Fun Nazi at a desk? “Something to shoot for,” I say.
“You don’t look excited.”
I shake my head, still my twitching eyelid. “Sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t be a climber.”
“No apology necessary.” He leans forward, face intense with curiosity or offense, eyes going amber, hands still folded before him, dark skin etched with age but not worry. “Are you familiar with our programs here at Bowling Green?” he asks.
“The students told me about them.”
“They’re all very exciting to us, you know? Even if you don’t care.”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
“Simply put, we offer our students more programming than any other Greek Life office in the nation,” he says, voice hypnotic as Walter LaFaber’s…and then he lists off the names and goals of alcohol awareness workshops coordinated by this office; he lists academic success workshops, scholarships specifically for Greek students, recruitment conclaves, leadership conclaves, and I hear the words “conclave” and “symposium” and “convocation” and “conference” and “workshop” and “retreat” used so often that I try to keep a mental tally but eventually lose track. The office and its graduate assistants plan Diversity Pot Luck Dinners and Faculty Luncheons, resume-building sessions and study skills presentations, Greek-wide service events, Greek-wide “Unity” barbecues. And as Dr. Vernon speaks, I get the feeling that he has this entire boilerplate speech memorized for the benefit of traveling consultants and school administrators; it slides out of his mouth as easily as the Alphabet Song.
“Yeah, that’s a lot of programs,” I say.
“You still don’t seem impressed. This is the pinnacle, Mr. Washington. This is what you do, but to the next level.”
“No, I’m properly impressed. It really sounds like a lot of programs.”
He grins again. “We’re catering to the Millennials.” He taps his fingertips together.
“The Millennial Generation.” I rub my temples.
“Absolutely,” he says, his hand sliding a few inches to the left to tap one of the books on his desk, a thick hardcover published by Yale University Press. “We are the undisputed experts on Millennial Generation research.”
“Sounds like a big deal.”
“You can say that again,” he says, and—just to be a smart-ass—I almost do, but once again he’s off and running: “Parents are programming their kids from an early age, you see: team sports, foreign language lessons. Once they get into high school, kids are taking AP classes in their sophomore year. I read recently of a student entering UVA with 72 credit hours! College enrollments are at their highest levels ever. These are high achievers. All of these students we see around us, these Millennials, their generation has the greatest potential ever, is what we hope. A Hero Generation, capable of changing the world.”
I think of Sam Anderson at New Mexico State, of students standing on a chair in the center of a dark room. I think of Adam Duke at Illinois, his big-screen TV and six-pack of Anchor Steam. I think of Bradley Camden in the empty kitchen, tossing a McDonalds wrapper into a trashcan full of McDonalds wrappers. I think of Pittsburgh, the stain on the ceiling fan. I think of my own Senior Send-Off, the lonely boy standing on the curb while the Night Patrol rolled up.
“Our programs at Bowling Green will directly influence the rest of the universities in this country.” Now he sweeps his hand outward to indicate the vastness of the North American continent. “Our research, our practices, shape the way that students go about their daily lives. Their residence halls. Their clubs, their fraternities. We are with them 24/7, and we shape their behavior, their attitudes. Do you see the magnitude of it all? We will chart the course of this entire generation.”
“Sounds like a big deal,” I say again—
—but he’s saying “We are going to soon be living in a compassion boom,” and then he’s talking about privileged young people who could take high-paying jobs, but who choose—willingly choose—to work for non-profits, for social services, for schools. He’s reciting statistics on the number of unpaid positions that young people are assuming for a full year after graduation in order to change the world, and he’s clapping like he’s the reason for it. “We have a generation who has easy access to information, who knows what’s wrong with the world, who wants to save the world,” he says. “The gradu
ate students you see around you? They are part of it.”
“Compassion boom.” I think of my father, casually dismissing the same term.
“Compassion boom,” and he taps the book again. I notice the title: Fraternity Man as Community Champion.
I say nothing. I open my mouth. I shrug. I came to this meeting out of obligation, to finish some basic paperwork for my visit report. I’m not in the mood for anything more.
“So,” he says, fingertips pressed together again. “You don’t look like you’re buying my bullshit.”
The world stops.
“What? Bullshit?” I start. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful.”
But I was. And he saw it.
“Let’s talk about you for a moment, Charles Washington,” Dr. Vernon says. He moves the book aside, shuffles through those papers on his desk again, finds something that intrigues him. “With whom have you met so far on your visit?”
“Wait. This, like, isn’t about me.”
“Sure it is. We’re talking. I’m getting to know you.”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ve met with the Executive Board.”
“One meeting in two days? That’s pretty light. Is the road wearing you down?”
“I’ve done a lot of informal stuff.”
“Tell me about your average chapter visit, Charles Washington,” he says. “Your schedule. Your activities. What do you do out there?”
“Why does that matter? Aren’t we supposed to talk about the chapter here at Bowling Green? I’m confused.”
“I know about the chapter here,” Dr. Vernon says. “We have a graduate assistant living in the house. But I want to know more about you. After all, these students are paying for your visit, are they not? What are you offering that the university isn’t?”
“You’ve had this job for twenty years? I thought you’d know about all of that.”
“Humor me. Pretend I know nothing.”
“Fine,” I say. I throw up my hands. We can both play the “boilerplate” game. “I’m an Educational Consultant. I have a specific set of responsibilities.” I tell him the mission, even though I’m sure he’s heard it before. I tell him that Nu Kappa Epsilon is building socially responsible citizens, that we offer more leadership development programming than any other young men’s organization, Boy Scouts included. I tell him that I pledge allegiance to the flag, I tell him that Our Father, who art in Heaven, I tell him that A-B-C-D-E-F-G, H-I-J-K-LMNOP, I tell him that one-on-ones, alumni, meetings with advisors, I tell him that Marathon Man and Diamond Candidate and polo shirt, I tell him that I’m not even listening to myself anymore, or maybe I just think that last comment, but who knows, because when I talk about fraternity life now, it just feels like a voice recording projecting from my mouth. In mid-sentence, I’ll start to wonder why anyone even takes this shit seriously. I mean, people write books about fraternity life? Can you imagine dedicating years of your life to writing a book about this shit?
And here, now, I say something that surprises myself: “Sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing even when I am,” I say. “Sometimes I’m doing the wrong thing, but it feels like the right thing. Sometimes I get so mixed up that I don’t even care.”
“Interesting,” he says.
“Interesting?” I ask. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said any of that. It’s…that’s not something I want repeated. What did I just say?”
“What wrong things have you done?”
“I misspoke,” I say.
“Then what did you mean to say?”
Finger to my eyelid. How do I hit backspace on this one? “It’s not…it’s not that things were wrong.”
“No?”
“It’s just, everyone has these different definitions of what makes a thing right or wrong. That’s what I meant, I guess.”
“Please don’t feed me bullshit,” he says.
“No, no,” I say. “What I mean is…we try to make things simple by saying ‘this is right’ and ‘this is wrong,’ but it’s never that easy, you know? It’s always changing. One moment at one school, something is endearing or harmless, and then suddenly it’s dangerous and unacceptable. It hurts my head.”
He places his fist at his mouth as if to cough, but he chuckles instead. “I like your skepticism,” he says. “I like that you’re thinking critically.”
“You like that I’m critical?” I ask. “I would’ve thought that this is blasphemy.”
He nods. “So much better than the consultants who just give me the company line. I meet with far too many robots.”
“I’m not a robot.”
“Prove it. Tell me more, Mr. Washington.”
“Tell you more?”
“Tell me what you’ve seen out there, on the road.”
“I don’t know.”
“Unless you want to leave the impression that you’re just like the rest of them?”
“I’m not,” I say, and before I know it I’m telling him everything that I’ve been thinking for the past month. I’m telling him that I thought everything would be textbook-pretty—
—but it took me too long to realize that no matter the “mission,” everyone’s got an agenda. And too often they clash. The students have a reason for joining a fraternity: some of them probably did want the leadership development angle. But others? They could care less about leadership, just joined because they just wanted friends to play video games with, or—hell—maybe they did want a drinking club. Sure. We make it sound so nefarious, I tell him, but these things aren’t all terrible. It’s just kids, and they join for a specific reason. But then here comes the National Fraternity, and we say: No, there’s only one thing you can be, and that’s what we want fraternity to be. If you aren’t with us, then you’re a problem chapter. And so there’s this animosity, us vs. you, and then you throw in the alumni, and now there’s another 80 years’ worth of ideas of what they want the fraternity chapters to be. Sometimes it aligns with the students, sometimes it aligns with the National Fraternity. Sometimes neither. “And then, shit,” I say, “then there’s you.” I hold up my palms: we had to get here sooner or later. Every Greek Advisor on every campus wants something different, too, I’m telling him. Maybe you’re in it for yourself, your research. Maybe you only want to advance to some other campus position. I close my eyes, shake my head, try to visualize all of these groups competing over the same institution, an army of men in polos and Greek letters all reaching and grabbing and reaching and grabbing. “I always thought my parents’ marriage was like a tug-of-war,” I say. “Always going back and forth whenever one of them won some little domestic battle. But this? The fraternity world is like a four-way marriage tug-of-war, for God’s sake, and there’s no chance for divorce.”
He leans forward, tie piling like folded deli meat atop the manila folder, and makes a faux shock face. “You think Greek Advisors are part of the problem?”
“Greek Advisors.” I shake my head. “At one campus, I met a fraternity—they’d gotten in trouble because two members were underage drinking at a social event—and this entire fraternity chapter, sixty guys, had to take an online alcohol education program. That was the punishment that the Greek Advisor recommended. What the hell is that all about? What does that do?”
“Well,” he says and looks about to deliver some data on—
“Another campus,” I say, and I’m not going to let him say a damned word. Suddenly he has become Dr. Jacobs at Illinois, George Samuels at Pittsburgh, Donnie Ackman at New Mexico State; he has become every Greek Advisor I’ve ever met, a hundred books on his wall, a dozen binders filled with reports and surveys and typed-out programs, a gallon of ink spilled on signatures and tear-away presentation-board sheets, a thousand hours of workshops and motivational speakers…but not a single hour on a fraternity house couch. “I saw a group put on probation for conducting an unregistered community service event. Listen: they were holding this book drive for a local high school, but they hadn’t filled out pap
erwork with the Greek Life office, and so they all—again, we’re talking about sixty or seventy guys—they were all punished by the Student Conduct Board and had to write these stupid apology letters and…” I shake my head. “There are other examples. Dozens. Campus administrators who think everything is solved”—I make like I’m clapping the dust off my hands—“because we filed paperwork, or because we had everyone go to see an anti-hazing speaker one afternoon. They’re just trying to create the illusion that they’ve done something.”
Dr. Vernon’s cuff links sparkle again as he motions toward me. “Useful commentary,” he says, and I thought he’d be pissed, seething that I’d just attempted to crash the scaffolds of his life’s calling…“So how are you different?”
“How am I different?”
“How are you different?”
“I’m right there in the house,” I say. “I sit with them. I talk to them.”
“About what?”
“About everything!” I say, and suddenly I realize my voice has become loud and uncontrolled. I don’t know what we talk about, I tell him. House occupancy? Dues payments? Jay-Z? LeBron James? Tina Fey? Thirteen or fourteen waking hours, breakfast-lunch-dinner, trips to Subway or Quiznos, movies till midnight, a 12-pack. Who knows what we talk about in all that time? But that’s real work, I tell him, growing angrier with each new word. That isn’t just a formal one-on-one meeting in an office, Greek Advisor with Student Leader. That isn’t just typing on a computer. You’ve got to care about these kids as something more than spreadsheet cells, I say.
Dr. Vernon hasn’t blinked in the last minute, doesn’t break his stare as he listens to me. But eventually he leans forward in his seat, calm as ever, body casting shadow over his desk, and says: “So. Are you trying to convince me that you’ve done good work, or are you trying to convince yourself?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Vernon exhales. “You still can’t admit it. You’re no different than the ones you’re criticizing.”
And I wipe my forehead. “I’m no different?” I ask. “I see what you’re doing here. You just want to talk about me because you’re the one who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. You’re fucking clueless! All of your pointless programs? Millennial Generation research? You’re just another climber, using these fucking students for your own gains. I’m no different?”