Sunday, January 25, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Who the fuck are we?
I suppose that I'm a Southern girl. I hail from Georgia, where the peaches grow. I do drink lemonade, but I don't speak real slow. I talk in rapid bursts of wheezing excitement, punctuated by slightly indecipherable puns made funny only by characteristic facial expressions. I rarely brush my hair.
I am, for all intents and purposes, the antithesis of the stereotypical Southern sorority girl. I pictured the antiquated idea of hoop skirts and poofy hair which perseveres in the deep South which I call home. I languished at meals with friends who assumed shocked faces at the mere thought of a pledge pin on my ragged cardigan, and friends from Georgia laughingly pondered if inhalation of hairspray had induced brain damage.
I didn't plan to endure the process of recruitment, let alone to pledge. My thoughts of sororities were undoubtedly tainted by the ideals set forth by the Facebook photos of my friends weathering their own form of hazing torture. My geographic sister, Medill freshman Ngozi Ekeledo of Macon, Georgia, attested, "I never pictured myself ever going through recruitment here just because of what my friends at southern schools had to deal with and how intense it was there. I appreciated Northwestern's more laid-back approach, even if you do have to stand out in the cold." As exhausting as Northwestern's recruitment seemed, it, in retrospect, was far less intensive than anything suffered elsewhere. Still, reluctance triumphed.
When I registered, despite the exaggerated hair flips at my expense, for Northwestern recruitment, entering the numerals on my credit card to pay the whopping $40 fee, I perpetually faced the question why I would possibly consider subjecting myself to nearly 30 hours of intensive "girl-flirting." Girl-flirting, in the vernacular, is the act of liberally issuing fantastic compliments to members of the same sex with at least the nominal intention of impressing females into accepting the girl-flirter. In the case of sorority life, the aim is indisputably the issuance of a bid by a particular chapter. This, at least, is how it all was explained to me as I waited, tush freezing in the decidedly unfair winter conditions. We certainly were not in Georgia anymore.
I positively perfected the art of girl-flirting as the week progressed; each house became a blur of deceptively uncomfortable armchairs emblazoned with birds purchased for far too much money at a store whose name I likely couldn't pronounce. I ate back my registration fee in a combination of pretty and tasty cookies, brownies, and petits fours, attempting not to release bits of food upon my forced-conversation captors--though some of my conversation partners were less considerate-- as I answered their rapid-fire questions with the, frankly, boring responses of, like, who I was when it came down to it. I discovered through this coldly impersonal interview process that most chapters were unaware of a critical characteristic of me: I'm not defined by the simplicity of answers to where I'm from, what I'm studying, what I'm involved in. We've previously established that I don't even fit the stereotype of a royal GRITS (Girl Raised in the South); my activities, my interests, my hometown are all meager parts of who I am. The rest is comprised, among others attributes, of a love for the inane, of a deep passion for musically appropriate handclaps, of an undying affinity for dinosaurs and, unrelatedly, for grammar.
Active members passed me along to allow me to "meet" their sisters, adopting fake smiles, enveloped in stale perfume. I felt used, overwhelmed, sweaty. For a substantial part of the entire week, I didn't feel like me. Weinberg freshman Jenna Lebersfeld, who went through recruitment but didn't stay until its conclusion said, "(My mother) said I should try it out, but I found it wasn't for me." Girls dropped from the process like flies, citing reasons from exhaustion to a psychological lack of inclusion. I considered the decision myself, thought of the sleeplessness and the poor work ethic I'd exhibited since the tiresome process began; I weighed options, contemplated throwing in the delicately embroidered handkerchief (for a sorority girl would never throw in a simple towel), hacking my way through a recently-developed cough. My sorority (Sororal..sororital? Is that a word? Stringy-haired Amanda Bynes, I question the same) woes brought about physical illness, but even my Clint Eastwood-Miss Piggy lovechild of a voice couldn't keep me from completing the process. As Pref Night insisted on heels and plastered-on smiles, I discovered a place of humanity in what I once considered the depraved lipstick jungle. I found one-hundred and twenty-five reasons to stay; ultimately, I let go of the southern stereotype and found myself, night after night, clinging to those reasons with increasing fervor. I encountered the belly of the beast and found I enjoyed the warmth, the embrace, the discussions of Depends and unfortunate purple mascara.
In time, I will call my haven home. I suppose that I am a Southern girl. But I am also a Northwestern girl, and perhaps that has made all of the difference.
And, after thirty hours, twelve houses, six days, and hundreds of wanton worries, I'm outfitted in the colors of bordeaux and silver. I have countless new Facebook friends and just as many new sisters. I've found a happy ending, a welcome domicile for every bit of my tone-deaf, frizzy-haired, musically eclectic self. I participated in a process I once considered nearly barbaric, and I came through on the other side-- happy.
I am, for all intents and purposes, the antithesis of the stereotypical Southern sorority girl. I pictured the antiquated idea of hoop skirts and poofy hair which perseveres in the deep South which I call home. I languished at meals with friends who assumed shocked faces at the mere thought of a pledge pin on my ragged cardigan, and friends from Georgia laughingly pondered if inhalation of hairspray had induced brain damage.
I didn't plan to endure the process of recruitment, let alone to pledge. My thoughts of sororities were undoubtedly tainted by the ideals set forth by the Facebook photos of my friends weathering their own form of hazing torture. My geographic sister, Medill freshman Ngozi Ekeledo of Macon, Georgia, attested, "I never pictured myself ever going through recruitment here just because of what my friends at southern schools had to deal with and how intense it was there. I appreciated Northwestern's more laid-back approach, even if you do have to stand out in the cold." As exhausting as Northwestern's recruitment seemed, it, in retrospect, was far less intensive than anything suffered elsewhere. Still, reluctance triumphed.
When I registered, despite the exaggerated hair flips at my expense, for Northwestern recruitment, entering the numerals on my credit card to pay the whopping $40 fee, I perpetually faced the question why I would possibly consider subjecting myself to nearly 30 hours of intensive "girl-flirting." Girl-flirting, in the vernacular, is the act of liberally issuing fantastic compliments to members of the same sex with at least the nominal intention of impressing females into accepting the girl-flirter. In the case of sorority life, the aim is indisputably the issuance of a bid by a particular chapter. This, at least, is how it all was explained to me as I waited, tush freezing in the decidedly unfair winter conditions. We certainly were not in Georgia anymore.
I positively perfected the art of girl-flirting as the week progressed; each house became a blur of deceptively uncomfortable armchairs emblazoned with birds purchased for far too much money at a store whose name I likely couldn't pronounce. I ate back my registration fee in a combination of pretty and tasty cookies, brownies, and petits fours, attempting not to release bits of food upon my forced-conversation captors--though some of my conversation partners were less considerate-- as I answered their rapid-fire questions with the, frankly, boring responses of, like, who I was when it came down to it. I discovered through this coldly impersonal interview process that most chapters were unaware of a critical characteristic of me: I'm not defined by the simplicity of answers to where I'm from, what I'm studying, what I'm involved in. We've previously established that I don't even fit the stereotype of a royal GRITS (Girl Raised in the South); my activities, my interests, my hometown are all meager parts of who I am. The rest is comprised, among others attributes, of a love for the inane, of a deep passion for musically appropriate handclaps, of an undying affinity for dinosaurs and, unrelatedly, for grammar.
Active members passed me along to allow me to "meet" their sisters, adopting fake smiles, enveloped in stale perfume. I felt used, overwhelmed, sweaty. For a substantial part of the entire week, I didn't feel like me. Weinberg freshman Jenna Lebersfeld, who went through recruitment but didn't stay until its conclusion said, "(My mother) said I should try it out, but I found it wasn't for me." Girls dropped from the process like flies, citing reasons from exhaustion to a psychological lack of inclusion. I considered the decision myself, thought of the sleeplessness and the poor work ethic I'd exhibited since the tiresome process began; I weighed options, contemplated throwing in the delicately embroidered handkerchief (for a sorority girl would never throw in a simple towel), hacking my way through a recently-developed cough. My sorority (Sororal..sororital? Is that a word? Stringy-haired Amanda Bynes, I question the same) woes brought about physical illness, but even my Clint Eastwood-Miss Piggy lovechild of a voice couldn't keep me from completing the process. As Pref Night insisted on heels and plastered-on smiles, I discovered a place of humanity in what I once considered the depraved lipstick jungle. I found one-hundred and twenty-five reasons to stay; ultimately, I let go of the southern stereotype and found myself, night after night, clinging to those reasons with increasing fervor. I encountered the belly of the beast and found I enjoyed the warmth, the embrace, the discussions of Depends and unfortunate purple mascara.
In time, I will call my haven home. I suppose that I am a Southern girl. But I am also a Northwestern girl, and perhaps that has made all of the difference.
And, after thirty hours, twelve houses, six days, and hundreds of wanton worries, I'm outfitted in the colors of bordeaux and silver. I have countless new Facebook friends and just as many new sisters. I've found a happy ending, a welcome domicile for every bit of my tone-deaf, frizzy-haired, musically eclectic self. I participated in a process I once considered nearly barbaric, and I came through on the other side-- happy.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Keep Your Head.
I'm all smiles today because
A. I'm Evanston-bound in the morning.
and, more importantly,
B. It's finally over.
Really.
Hello 2009.
A. I'm Evanston-bound in the morning.
and, more importantly,
B. It's finally over.
Really.
Hello 2009.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Reunion, reunion
I'm willing to allege that Fountains of Wayne's Welcome Interstate Managers was the best pop album of 2003. Hell, it might be the best album of love songs of the decade. And I never even got past the first four tracks. I probably wouldn't have even made it that far had it not been for the excellent Christopher Walken reference in "Hackensack." Regardless, this album makes me smile; it's heartfelt and devastating, chronicling loves and losses with utter pop sensibility. It's gorgeous. Seriously.
Things I Love About Being Home:
Showering barefoot.
Sleeping in a queen-sized bed.
Adhering to normal sleeping hours.
Seeing Harry.
Using ready wireless.
Time.
The closeness of family.
Driving Handsome Dan all about town.
Autumn-like weather patterns.
The Year in Review:
Three things I swore I'd never do.
Two things I regret.
One person I've loved.
Things I loved this year:
Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist
The Fall
Downtown Owl
Always the Bridesmaid
"Some Constellation"
Kate Nash
Matt Nathanson, 11/20/2008
SPACE
Judaism/ Israel
Space Oddities:
Punched in the face by David.
Greg's social faux pas (dos).
New Year's Resolutions:
Break Harry's spell.
Reorder priorities.
Control my sentiments.
Win a Paste internship.
This is sure to be a living document.
Happy New Year, bitches and babes.
It's been a good one.
Things I Love About Being Home:
Showering barefoot.
Sleeping in a queen-sized bed.
Adhering to normal sleeping hours.
Seeing Harry.
Using ready wireless.
Time.
The closeness of family.
Driving Handsome Dan all about town.
Autumn-like weather patterns.
The Year in Review:
Three things I swore I'd never do.
Two things I regret.
One person I've loved.
Things I loved this year:
Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist
The Fall
Downtown Owl
Always the Bridesmaid
"Some Constellation"
Kate Nash
Matt Nathanson, 11/20/2008
SPACE
Judaism/ Israel
Space Oddities:
Punched in the face by David.
Greg's social faux pas (dos).
New Year's Resolutions:
Break Harry's spell.
Reorder priorities.
Control my sentiments.
Win a Paste internship.
This is sure to be a living document.
Happy New Year, bitches and babes.
It's been a good one.
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