“So let me guess, you love your sisters and you’re obsessed with your big?”
That dreaded snarky comment quickly follows the first mention that I’m in a sorority. I force a laugh and act like it’s the first time I’ve heard it. And they’re almost right. I am obsessed with my big. She is the light of my life and there is no one above. I do love all of my sisters, but I don’t like all my sisters. Now, before anyone calls National Panhellenic and forces me to disaffiliate, hear me out.
When I rushed, I partially had a grasp on what I was getting into. I was used to being on teams in high school and I wanted the same for college. Unfortunately, my severe lack of athleticism hindered my ability to be on a college team, so I thought a sorority could give me the same feeling of belonging. The difference was you didn’t have to loooooove your teammates. You didn’t have to make videos fake laughing and talking about how you wake up every morning and put on your field hockey uniform because it has changed your life for the better. You didn’t have to let everyone know that you are a field hockey girl and you have a special bond with field hockey girls everywhere. You just had to respect them, support them, and help them up when they were down (in my case, quite literally, because I’m a little gravitationally challenged). That’s what I was looking for in a sorority: an unconditional support system.
Days after I got my bid, we all went to a sister’s place for a party. I nervously tried on 19 outfits until I decided on the first one I had tried on, and went to my first party as a sorority girl. I slowly sipped out of my solo cup while girls talked around and past me. I had already made a little group of friends, but as I scanned the sea of girls, I felt so alone. They were either too much personality for me to talk to or they seemed to have the personality of a fork. I couldn’t figure out how I ended up with them. I felt like I had nothing in common with anyone in the room. They were all taking pictures posed in half squats and triangle arms, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I had no idea if I was going to handle being a part of the high heeled, airbrushed, high pitch squealing madness.
As the weeks went by, I did my best to have a full conversation with all of the girls. If I was going to call them my sisters, I wanted to be able to know at least something about them. They told me stories about them that made laugh until tears streamed down my face. I heard some stories that broke my heart. There was a lot of crying. I can’t help that I’m an emotional person. I realized something once I got to know them more; we were all in this for a reason. Maybe an older sister saw a bit of herself in someone or they saw a future exec board member. Regardless of why, we both wear the same letters. As I’ve grown to love what these letters represent, I’ve also grown to love who represents these letters.
I treat my sisters like I would a real sister. You can’t choose your family, but they are still your family. And realistically, you can’t force over 100 people to all be friends with each other. I may not like all my sisters, and they might not all like me, but I like a lot of things about each of them and that’s more than I can ask for..