Pledged

by Alexandra Robbins

  The day I was to visit the house, I agonized over my outfit, blow-dried my hair straight, put on more makeup than usual, and dug my spikiest ankle boots out of the recesses of my closet. Admittedly, because not many of my friends were sorority sisters, I was nervous about entering an entire house full of them. The more I learned about sororities, the more bizarre their world seemed. As I tottered up to the porch, I suddenly didn’t feel like a twenty-six-year-old investigative reporter preparing to dig into another project about secret group behavior. I felt like the kid I was in junior high school, wearing sweatpants and soccer sandals, hoping to please everyone but at the same time trying hard to pretend not to care.

  Later that afternoon, I was curled up on a bunk bed and chatting with two of the sorority girls. Sometime during the emotional story one sister shared about how a sorority rivalry destroyed her relationship with her longtime best friend, I flashed back to my camp counselor days and had visions of serving as a kind of resident big sister to these girls. It hit me then that when I attended overnight camp, my teenaged bunk acted in ways that were somewhat similar to sororities. We traveled in packs, had rivalries with other bunks, pressured each other to break rules, and even fought over the same guy (who, coincidentally, eventually became the president of his fraternity at the school where I now sat). Here at the sorority house was a group that similarly provided selected college girls an automatic sense of belonging, no talent or niche required—a built-in social network to accompany a girl to bars, parties, sporting events, and study sessions. This comparison caused me not only to wonder if sorority girls were so different from the rest of us, but also to think that had I attended a larger college, maybe I would have been a sorority girl, too. But when the girls gave me a tour of the house, they told me about their sisters’ diet pill addiction, their pride in the fact that they hazed new girls, and their “drug room,” which displayed a bong, several bottles of pills, and some suspicious-looking white powder (some of the girls regularly did cocaine). If I had joined a sorority, I asked myself, would I, like the girls I met, inevitably have fallen into the kind of herd mentality among sororities that can encourage conformity, cliquishness, and compromising morals? At that initial point in my research, I didn’t know.

  After several days of observing this major national sorority, I was approached by the adviser of the house. A stern, heavyset sorority alumna who looked much older than her twentysomething years, she led me into the “scholarship room”—a small room with computers and a large file cabinet full of notes, tests, and papers from various classes offered at the school. She told me to sit down, and locked the glass door. Girls peered in quizzically as they walked by, but a quick glare from the adviser sent them scurrying on.

  “You shouldn’t have been given permission to be here,” she said gruffly. She interrupted herself by cursing under her breath and yelling in her deep voice at the girls she could see through a window who were smoking cigarettes on the front porch. “You’re not allowed to smoke in front of the house! It doesn’t look good!” The girls reluctantly slinked away.

  The adviser turned back to me. “You need to get permission from the national office, which is probably not going to give it to you.” She paused again. “And if for some reason they do, I simply cannot allow you to write about the drugs.”

  When I got home, I called the sorority’s national office and explained what I was doing, figuring this process of obtaining official permission was just a formality. The executive director, however, said otherwise. MTV had just aired a show called Sorority Life, which followed the six-week pledge process of a California sorority (a “local” sorority, which meant it was independent and unaffiliated with any national organization). The show had infuriated sororities nationwide, who believed that MTV had overly sensationalized life in a sorority house and concentrated only on the girls’ drinking and catty fights. “Because of the MTV show,” the executive director told me, “all of the national sororities have decided on a blanket policy not to cooperate with any members of the media. It’s just not appropriate at this time.” With that, I was suddenly completely closed off from a group of several dozen sorority girls I had already started to like.

  Realizing that I wouldn’t be able to openly observe a sorority house unless I received permission from its national office, I called other national sorority headquarters to state my case. One by one, every national office I talked to shut me out of their houses, even as I told them I was presenting a truthful—not necessarily negative—account of what sorority life is really like. “We’re gun-shy,” said one. “We’ve gotten several media calls even this week and we’re turning them all down,” said another. The twenty-six member groups of the National Panhellenic Conference, which was established in 1902 to oversee the historically white national sororities, had laid down the law.

  I didn’t understand the panicked responses of the national offices, which claim to instill within their sororities “individuality, . . . togetherness, . . . [and] friendships,” according to the web site for Alpha Epsilon Phi, whose motto is “Many Hearts, One Purpose.” They promote goals such as Delta Delta Delta’s, to “develop a stronger and more womanly character, to broaden the moral and intellectual life, and to assist its members in every possible way.” They foster, like Kappa Kappa Gamma, “friendship rooted in a tradition of high standards.” These aspirations seemed laudable, these institutions beneficial. One would assume the real-life sororities, therefore, have so much to offer that their positives would far outweigh their negatives. But when one school’s Panhellenic adviser attempted to blacklist me on her campus for writing this book, she insisted she must “protect our women.” The question was, protect them from what?

  BECAUSE NO SORORITY WOULD KNOWINGLY LET ME tail its sisters for the year, it became necessary for me to fly under the radar of both the national offices and the sorority girls themselves. I sought out individual sisters who were willing to risk their sorority membership by letting me into their lives for an entire academic year, knowing that they could not tell anyone—their sorority sisters, their friends, their families—who I really was. I can’t divulge how the four girls I chose, who knew they would be the main characters in a book I was writing about sororities, introduced me to their sisters, who did not know; and I can’t disclose the disguise I wore or role I played when spending time with these groups (suffice it to say, I can pass for nineteen). To further protect the four girls, who could be ostracized and even thrown out of the Greek system if their identities were revealed, I have given pseudonyms to them, their school, and their school’s Greek groups, and have changed identifying details. But their dilemmas, emotions, interactions, and dialogues are real. (The girls didn’t know I also monitored their Instant Messenger away messages, which they changed sometimes as frequently as once an hour. Away messages are bulletins that IM users post online so that friends can see what they are up to. Like many college students, the girls used their away messages to convey their state of mind or broadcast their whereabouts.)

  In order to provide a balanced view of sororities, I selected good-hearted girls who were members of “normal” sororities not known on campus as extreme stereotypes. I also chose these girls on the basis of their diverse attitudes toward and roles in their sororities. These sisters, one of whom was a sorority officer, are largely the kind of girls whom the national offices would be proud to have represent them, had the national offices been willing to allow themselves to be represented. The two juniors and two sophomores all attend a school I’ll call State University, a campus on which Greek life is considered important but not essential.

  It turned out that “going undercover” gave me more candid access to the sororities than I would have had openly as a reporter. Because I played the role I did, the sisters didn’t know to censor their behavior in front of me, and my four main subjects tended to view me more as a friend than a journalist. With that said, however, I would not presume that the experiences of these four sisters alone cou
ld accurately represent a sorority system of millions. Many of the posts on Greek system message boards constantly remind readers that it’s not right to let a few renegade sisters, or even chapters, represent the image of the entire sorority system. I took this message to heart. My four girls aren’t renegades; nevertheless, I have supplemented my observations of them with visits and interviews with scores of other sorority girls. By the time I finished writing Pledged, I had spoken with or met with several hundred girls. Essentially, I got to return to college and experience the path I had not taken the first time around (and had a far better time than I did when I was actually enrolled in college). When a sorority girl needed a date to a Date Party, I went; when sisters went shopping together, I joined them; when new members danced exuberantly on Bid Day, so did I. Though I couldn’t incorporate all of the hundreds of interviews in this book, the sisters’ frank assessments of sorority life shaped my observations.

  In writing this book, the surprise for me—and this may delight many readers—was that the notions of those topless pillow fights may not have been so far off base after all. In the back of my mind, I don’t think I ever really believed that sororities were quite as campy as their conventional image. But at about the time I heard about traditions like “Naked Party” and “Boob Ranking,” I had to reconsider. I learned that many of the rumors (as well as the fantasies) about sororities are indeed staggeringly true, including those concerning loyalty, sex, conformity, drugs, violence, verbal abuse, mind games, prostitution, racism, forced binge drinking, nudity, cheating, eating disorders, rituals, “mean girls,” and secrecy. But not all sororities encompass these experiences; and of the sororities that do, not all consist of girls one would necessarily consider “bad.”

  Much of sorority life espouses noble purpose, and the friendships and philanthropy encouraged by these organizations can enhance a girl’s college experience, boost her self-esteem, and better her character. But the prevalence of the aforementioned litany, which still occurs on several campuses nationwide in the name of tradition, speaks volumes about larger issues concerning women, higher education, and female group dynamics. Even halfway into the year, I was plagued by questions. Why are twenty-first-century women still so eager to participate in such seemingly outdated, ritualistic groups and activities? What is the purpose of sororities and what does membership truly require of the sisters? How does a sisterhood change the way a girl thinks about herself? Do sororities cause women to fall further behind in the gender wars or are they instead women’s secret weapon? My challenge, then, in writing Pledged, was how to reconcile the unexpected discovery of a dark side to sorority life with the observation that many of the girls who participate in it and continue to join it in droves are “normal” girls, girls who are sweet, smart, successful, and kind both before and after they join. Girls—and this puzzled me—who by year’s end no longer intimidated me. Girls who would be surprised to read how their sororities appear from an outsider’s point of view.

  AUGUST

  The sorority becomes one of life’s great forces in teaching the beauty of self-sacrifice. Leadership under the spell of this great power must be magnetic. Self-confidence, then, is creative, self-control restrictive, self-sacrifice persuasive.

  —The Sorority Handbook, published in 1907

  Manicured nails are of paramount importance for the finished look.

  —Ready for Rush: The Must-Have Manual for Sorority Rushees! published in 1999

  AUGUST 17

  VICKI’S INSTANT MESSENGER AWAY MESSAGE

  missing my california crew. can i come home yet?

  ON SORORITY ROW, SORORITY girls stepped cheerily into their houses, many of them followed by fathers loaded up with boxes or, in the exceptionally good-looking cases, towing beefy undergrad boys just barely able to see over the duffel bags full of clothes and stuffed animals they dutifully hefted. As quickly as the men nailed extra shelves into the bedroom walls, the girls lined them with Michael Kors perfume, Juicy Couture tees, and rows of designer sunglasses. (One sister dissolved into peals of loud laughter because she’d lost the case to her Gucci sunglasses and as a result had stored them in a Calvin Klein case instead.)

  At State U, it wasn’t too difficult to distinguish which girls belonged to which of the eighteen houses. Sisters of the largest house on campus were tall and brunette, seemingly all of them slender with dancers’ grace. Members of the most obnoxious sorority were almost uniformly dressed in white tank tops, or as they called them, “wife beaters,” slim black sweatpants, and either white socks and sneakers or black platform flip-flops. The Alpha Rhos, whose girls were known as laid back but also, as some put it, “sexually relaxed,” were slightly more haphazard in tanks, jeans, flip-flops, and bandannas. A few sisters of Beta Pi, Alpha Rho’s biggest rival and a group considered to be princesses, trotted back and forth with their boyfriends across the Row in short shorts, tight tees, and platform shoes.

  When the silver Lexus, its gleam wavering in the August humidity, pulled in front of the Beta Pi house, the Beta Pis watched with interest as a deeply bronzed leg cautiously stepped from the back door. Their boyfriends’ eyes traveled up the length of the slender limb to where the natural tan, unfaded, met a pair of chic but modest designer shorts. The Beta Pis instinctively glanced downward, raising eyebrows when they noticed unpainted toenails curled in flat flip-flops. When a summer-blond head finally appeared, large green cat eyes fixed on the curb, the Beta Pis recognized the girl as “the one with potential” who had so far disappointed them. The sisters had invited the naturally pretty sophomore to join Beta Pi in the spring of her freshman year, thinking that with her dot-com-millionaire parents and her West Coast upbringing, she was a savvy California surfer girl who would fit right into the sisterhood. But so far, Vicki had turned out to be a dud. She was a painfully quiet small-town girl less interested in partying with new friends than spending hours on the phone with old ones from back home. The Beta Pis and their boyfriends shrugged and continued across the Row.

  Vicki took a deep breath and reluctantly followed her parents inside Beta Pi. One of the most impressive homes on the Row, Beta Pi was a four-story white frame Victorian mansion with a classic wraparound porch, a rolling back lawn, and a spacious veranda spiked by long white columns. Inside, a massive fresh flower arrangement graced a polished oak table at the foot of the broad front staircase. To the right of the entry hall, Vicki could see women in white uniforms setting up a spread of cold cuts, chips, and petite cakes for the sisters and their families.

  “Hi Vicki!” The president, thin and blond like most of the Beta Pis, smiled widely and effusively greeted Vicki’s parents, who immediately tried to prod their daughter into a conversation.

  “Um, hi,” Vicki practically whispered in her childlike voice. She hunched her tall frame so she seemed closer to the president’s height. “I’m, like, going to go unpack?” The president nodded and chattered at Vicki’s father while he headed outside to unload the car.

  Vicki heard her mother clamoring over the welcome banners festooned across the entry hall but tuned out the comments as she lost herself in her bewildered second thoughts. Compared to the noise of the street, the house was much quieter; Vicki could hear their footfalls echoing up the stairwell. When the rest of the girls streamed in later in the afternoon, the mansion would be a madhouse, with girls screeching and hugging after a summer of scattered sisterhood. Cringing, she could hear them already—“I haven’t seen you in fo’-EVA!”—squealing the way seventh graders sign yearbooks. And now, as she passed bedroom doors decorated with handmade, gold-glittered names she barely recognized, it finally hit her that she was moving into a sorority house, that she was part of a sorority, and yet she had no idea what that meant.

  Over the summer, Vicki hadn’t thought about most of the girls in her pledge class, the group with whom she had rushed and been initiated, and now it was difficult to imagine actually living, eating, sleeping, studying, and partying with them. Instead, she h
ad spent her summer doing what she had done every year since she could remember: watching television, listening to music, and eating takeout with her two best friends and her boyfriend, a caring boy who wanted to marry her. The only difference this year was that none of the other three could stop talking about how ridiculous it was that Vicki had joined a sorority in the spring. Vicki explained that she forced herself through the rush process to be part of a more intimate community within State U, to make a large university seem smaller. She had tried so hard to fake a sorority attitude during rush that she had painted her fingernails with clear polish so she wouldn’t chew them. When she received her invitation, she was shocked and proud. But her girlfriends, who attended the local community college back home, didn’t understand the point of being Greek, and her boyfriend, who had followed her to State U, worried that sorority life would mean they would have less time together. Now that she was back on campus, these Beta Pis were going to be her new best friends—they had to be, she had no choice—and she didn’t really know them.

  On the fourth floor, the sophomores’ floor, Vicki headed to the tiny room she would be sharing with three roommates from her pledge class: loud Olivia; gorgeous Morgan, who resembled a Barbie doll; and Laura-Ann, who, with her springy red hair, seemed even more of an outsider than Vicki. Wary of the other, unfamiliar sisters, Vicki planned to stick closely to her roommates whenever she was in the house, particularly to Olivia. Olivia, a party girl who wore coats of thick black eyeliner and a spicy perfume, was an unlikely companion, but she had taken Vicki under her wing when they pledged Beta Pi together. Vicki had warmed to her when Olivia admitted that she had bleached her dark hair blond before rush so she would look like a Beta Pi.