It is a little known fact, even among my close friends, that I was once a member of a sorority. In 1991, Delta Psi Delta was pretty new. They had big dreams of someday being absorbed by the national “Tri Delts” (immortalized on SNL with the phrase, “Delta Delta Delta, can I help ya help ya help ya?”) but, like a small magazine looking for a grant, they still had to prove themselves worthy. That year I was just cresting my Androgynous Grunge Angst period and hardly a candidate for sorority life, but I suspect they were sort of desperate for rushes (applicants). Every girl that showed up at our first meeting had been personally invited. I had reservations, but I figured my chances of ever again experiencing this particular slice of life were slim; I thought what the hell? When I walked in wearing a plaid flannel shirt and army boots, no one batted an eye.

Over the next eight months I attended charity events and made friends with our “Greek brothers” in the Acadia fraternity – boys who, when I ran out of money at the holidays, personally set up a driver relay to get me home for free. I decided popular depictions of sororities as petty, fascist dictatorships were overly harsh.

Here is a six page list, forwarded by the president of the Pi Phi sorority at Cornell to all new rushes outlining what dress will be considered acceptable for sorority events. (No “plastic shizzz” please.)

I think I stand corrected.

- g.