Sitting in the BC listening to how Pi Phi "shakes it" like a Polaroid picture, I beamed with pride (despite the empty clapping and mindless cheering to Outkast's obviously much-deeper words). Hours later as I watched a horde of my female classmates line up like cattle to be slaughtered at Theta rush, I was beaming with something quite different.... disgust.
I was disgusted by the overwhelming need these women--women who seem so outwardly independent and forward in their mindset--had to become part of a vapid cult that, unfortunately, demands very little of their ambition outside conformity.
As they lined up to be sized and fitted--judged and deemed worthy--by Duke's greek queens, I was disgusted by how many of my classmates were shortchanging themselves and their individuality by Tri-ing so hard to fit in.
The only thing more nauseating than being sized up by men is being sized up by women--people of your own sex who should know better than to hold you to those unattainable, "effortlessly perfect" standards.
Sororities may not be the cause of this unhealthy image for Duke women, but they most definitely propel these preposterous notions of womanhood.
In the words of Chi-O, "Be womanly... always." The Tri-Delts mirror this message in their mission statement: "To develop a more womanly character." It's no wonder that Duke's social culture never changes; it's around January of each year that we get a cold reminder of what's right and good (the woman in pearls) and what's strikingly sinful at our wannabe ivy-league school.
During rush, sororities disguise Duke's unhealthy expectations for us wee-little freshmen girls under the rhythmic beat of Outkast and the stronger beat of the social drum. As genuine as sororities themselves might be, the rush process undermines and humiliates any legitimate standing they have at Duke.
No, this is not a sisterhood. Instead of fostering togetherness, sororities at Duke only further segregate a campus that puts females on a pedestal of blonde hair, blonder highlights and Pet Louis (Vuitton, that is). And though the sorority girl's bag might not be fake, her smile surely is.
But she is still a woman of Duke. And, most likely, she has traveled halfway around the country--or the world--to study here. What's more, she has come alone. But during rush, this woman denies her spirit and strength and will to stand alone to instead give it all up to the Ya Ya sisters who tastelessly dance along to Outkast.
As bad of a reputation as the frat boys at Duke may have, they are far less superficial than sororities. In fact, they are far more effective than sororities at creating a healthy environment for their members.
True; these men can be quite disgraceful to the women they hound--the male Dukie who walks around in daylight wearing bright pink pants and an even brighter smile, kissing us on the cheek as a sign of respect, would just so easily manwhore-himself-up under the cloaked night when drunk on machismo and high on libido--but the commitment they have to each other is unquestionable.
Fraternities foster a kind of kinship--brotherhood, in this case--within the Duke greek system. As such, they tend to respect the new and fresh faces that rush with them as just that: new and fresh.
Maybe this is because fraternities scrutinize their cattle for the duration of a whole month before initiating them into greek life, unlike the Triangle sisters who spend only about a week sizing up their livestock. What amazes me about fraternities is that these boys-turned-men put their brothers before themselves; and themselves before their social lives.
Sorority sisters don't cry on each other's shoulders. They don't weep for their bad times, but instead drink to their good ones. They hold mixers to find men who will seduce and subdue them--the frat boy who kisses their cheek and holds their hand on campus, but whose hand could be found somewhere quite different (and ignoble) at the sorority mixer.
To those who are rushing, be warned: it gets worse. You wear pink to tailgates and prance around in polka dots and poodle skirts.... This is the end to your stilettos and black lace.
Can I have your little black books, please? The Pi Phi's call themselves angels, while the Ya Ya triangle sisters call themselves pansies.
Whatever your poison, both sororities will surely ban these black books of yours... and they will go quite nicely with the vibrator one reader suggested I get. (I'm thinking about the Jack Rabbit.)
Shadee Malakalou is a Trinity freshman. Her column appears every other Wednesday.
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