Hey There, Sister

“Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?” A stranger greets me on a Collegetown street corner. I grimace and keep walking. Suddenly, a second unfamiliar male — an accomplice to the first — leaps out from the shadows. Whipping out a digital camera, he captures my disgust before the two run away into the night. On the phone with my sister, I stare after them in dismay.

But something about having my little sister as an aural witness to the transgression got me all hot and bothered. So, when I saw the little assholes run into Collegetown Pizza, I decided I needed to give her a lesson in self-assertiveness.

Mustering all the maturity and poise I had in me, I stomped across the street to articulate my grave sense of grievance.

“Hey, shitheads. Who do you think you are?”

And there, before my eyes, the despicable delinquents transformed into bumbling baby frat boys. In between bites of cheese pizza, they apologized profusely. The pernicious prank, they claimed, was not aimed at me personally. Rather, it was a test of their own commitment, set forth to them by the honorable leaders of their fraternity.

Harmless horseplay! Trivial tomfoolery!

I walked away smiling and said goodbye to my sister.

But by letting the blameworthy ‘bros’ off the hook, I lost the chance to really explain myself to her.

This week, my sassy sis, a freshman at another fine institution, will take her first steps toward sororitydom. She is on her way toward gaining admittance to her school’s “Greek” community … and therefore, to surrounding herself with company as fantastically frat-ilicious as the boys described above.

And it’s making me nervous to think that she could become a victim of this kind of blatant sexism.

But it’s not the boys I’m most worried about …

As a former “sister,” I want to take this time to give my sister some sisterly advice. At the same time, I’ll open up my message to the big sisters of the Cornell sisterhood: the Panhellenic Council.

Dear Sally (c/o: Panhellenic Council),

Once, I was in a sorority. Now I’m not. On a campus where men often ask me what house I’m in before they know my name, this is tantamount to blasphemy.

So why did I (shhh) deactivate? It certainly had nothing do with the girls — some of the best females I’ve met on campus to date. But it was a reaction to irreconcilable problems I had with the system … most of them having to do with the way I felt degraded and belittled by Greek life.

Political theorists would revel in a study of Cornell undergraduates. We are a group of diverse teenagers who arrive at a common locale with wide eyes and a hankerin’ for some hullabaloo.

Then, within a few months, we develop a taste for self-imposed isolation. We form homogenous mini-communities — tiny societies with their own elected leaders, legislatures, administrators, and legal systems.

[And don’t you look down on me — hipsters, athletes, science enthusiasts, … hotelies. You do it too, albeit in a more informal way.]

But the strangest thing is that, eventually, we start to accept these weird little self-imposed systems as given.

From day one of “rush week,” I was faced with a formidable task: trying my best to abide by the rules set forth by the formidable and omnipotent Panhellenic Council.

It seems strange to me that a group of chicks can be so paternalistic.

While my male friends were pounding beers and downing chicken wings with their potential bros, I spent recruitment week nibbling nervously on Panhellenic-approved cookies and being sure not to make reference to the three Bs: boys, booze, and bids. Clad in uncomfortable heels and squirming anxiously in my seat each time I was referred to as a “young lady,” I spent hours watching carefully rehearsed sorority skits and listened to sobbing seniors talk about how much their sisters mean to them.

I found myself using phrases like “girl friends” and saying things like “I heard third round of rush is when you really get a feel for the house.”

I’m not proud of it. But so it goes.

And the whole time, I was so preoccupied by how much it sucked that I forgot to ask why it sucked. I only learned later that it isn’t like this at other schools.

And the absurd rules just became more stringent once I joined. Bans on having parties. The mandatory presence of “house parents.” Financial fines for speaking out of turn.

This is all common knowledge to anyone “in a house,” but seems entirely nonsensical when taken out of context.

Flash back to junior year. I am sitting on the floor of a converted bedroom. It is the day of my trial. I skipped a required event and was being reprimanded.

Me: But I have a legitimate excuse. I was studying for the LSATs.

Unnamed Sorority: I understand that.

Me: So what’s the problem?

Unnamed Sorority: Katie, we have to fine you. It’s in the bylaws.

Me: [Pounding my first on the carpeted floor] THEN AMEND THE BYLAWS!

Much to my disappointment, the judicial council did not rally behind my clarion call for righteousness, lifting me up and proclaiming me the leader of a new revolutionary vanguard. Instead, I paid the $20 and went away sulking, the bitter taste of injustice still lingering in my mouth.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

As it stands, the system is archaic, paternalistic, and patronizing, imposing unnecessary restrictions on women old enough to handle themselves. It is demeaning for ‘Panhell’ to demand that freshman walk around in formal attire in the dead of winter so that they can look pretty for the hour they spend inside. It is degrading to make sophomores sing and dance around in a twisted attempt to attract freshmen with the best skit. It is an absurd expenditure of energy to deliver pre-approved cookies to sororities the morning of ‘final round’ to make sure that no house wins over a freshman girl with superior treats.

Don’t get wrong. I loves me some cookies. But there ain’t no chocolate chip cookie in the world that would have made me choose one house over another.

How unintelligent you must imagine me to be. How low you set the bar on my ability to make decisions.

The worst thing is that is all of this is only what occurred during normal business hours. It paled in comparison to the degrading situations the sorority system encourages its “young ladies” to enjoy during the off hours.

CEOs and Corporate Hoes.

Golf pros and Tennis Hoes.

Rock stars and Porn Stars.

Hoe down.

Sec’s and Execs.

Truckers ‘n’ Hookers.

Vikings and Virgins.

Snow pants or no pants.

‘Screw your sister.’

But I digress …

Nothing could convince me that Greek life is healthy for Cornell. Short of calling for its complete destruction, I’ll say only this: it’s high time to amend the bylaws.

Last Sunday, the Panhellenic Council had elections.

TO THE NEW PANHELLENIC COUNCIL — I ask you “young ladies” to think long and hard about the system as it stands. This is an opportunity to initiate a radical overhaul, a revamping of archaic rules that have little relevance to your group’s goals.

Frat boys do enough to degrade and demean us. Let’s stop doing it to ourselves.

TO SALLY — I ask that you consider carefully your decision to join. Also, Sal Pal, Dad told me about your biology exam and I’m very proud of you.

And, TO THOSE PRICKS FROM COLLEGETOWN PIZZA — Thank you for reminding me how thankful I am to have left a system that left me behind.

XO,

Katie

Katie Engelhart is a senior editor at The Sun. She can be reached at kengelhart@cornellsun.com [5]. Don’t Kill The Messenger appears alternate Thursdays.