Levine | The most sinister part of sorority rush is the men who made exclusivity the norm
To practically everyone in my life’s surprise, I spent the first weekend of spring quarter in sorority rush. I never saw myself as a sorority girl. Watching “Bama Rush” scared me straight and, wanting to protect my mental state and my hair, I preemptively removed myself from the world of Greek life.
After befriending women from classes and extracurriculars who spoke positively about their sorority experience and realizing almost all my friends planned to rush, I regretfully admit that I succumbed to peer pressure. The worst part of the experience, though, was going on Fizz (Stanford’s anonymous social media platform of choice) at the end of each night and being bombarded with demeaning rhetoric. From posts comparing sororities’ new pledge classes (implicitly evaluating women based on appearance) to posts explicitly judging women’s weighst, it was demoralizing to see how easily my peers, when afforded the cover of anonymity, jumped to criticize other women.
When asked why I was rushing, I spoke about my desire for a non-male space. Having spent high school in traditionally white, male-dominated spaces like debate, I longed for a counterculture to the frat parties at which I’d been spending a large part of fall and winter quarter. Instead, rushing brought me back to high school and the same exclusion and hierarchy. The fact that the gatekeepers weren’t men didn’t make me feel better.
I knew about the unofficial sorority hierarchy, although given that only 22% of Stanford undergrads are in Greek life, it doesn’t really translate to much inclusion or exclusion. I was most let down by the casual judgment and cruel remarks women made towards other “rival” organizations regarding class, social status and attractiveness. Instead of criticizing the systems that tell us to prioritize competition, we mirror oppressive messages we receive to continue the cycle of inequality. Women are at enough of a disadvantage as it is. There’s no need for us to make it harder for each other.
Women are regularly encouraged to buy into a system of competition. From the potential new members who know that their friends getting bids means one fewer spot to the chapters who must market themselves as a superior option for “top” girls in rush, sororities’ inherent exclusivity makes it a game of who you know, what you bring to the table and what makes you unique. Similar to college applications, rush is a game of setting yourself apart. This necessitates comparison to other women — even if implicit — that puts down others. Whether for resources, opportunities or romance, women are taught to compete and see our peers as rivals rather than allies.
Rather than widen the pool of options or broaden our horizons so as not to zoom in on each minute opportunity, we further perpetuate this myth of scarcity in a place like Stanford. We already “beat out” 96.1% of our peer group. We’re hardwired for a fight, convinced we’ll transcend the limits of our gender if we just make it to what fraternities or anonymous Fizz posters deem “the best kind of women.” However, the greater obstacle our gender faces goes far beyond individual ascension or improvement: establishing a system set on our own terms necessitates a collaborative, collective effort without putting other women down.
Sororities were created as a direct response to exclusion women faced in higher education, particularly in social circles and career opportunities. The very first ones were secret societies — think Yale’s infamous Skull and Bones or Harvard’s final clubs from which Mark Zuckerberg was allegedly rejected — a means to regain power through replicating exclusive, unattainable standards within an institution.
When my older brother told me I couldn’t play with his friends, I would force my mom to play with me and make a point of telling him, “You can’t play with us either.” I’d leave with my head held high, proud of how I’d gotten my revenge. The funniest part is, I’m sure he never cared. I wasn’t his first choice in the first place.
Countercultures are only successful if they deliberately distance themselves from the norm by refusing to cater to its expectations and exclusivity. If they instead mirror the established hierarchy, they further feed into the idea that those in power are the sole arbitrators of social groups on campus. It may seem a little juvenile to recall my childhood beef, but there’s research proving that when young men get into groups such as being a part of fraternal membership, a pack mentality forms and yields worse decision-making and higher levels of immaturity.
Theorized as the fault of echo chambers which reinforce toxic masculine ideology, such spaces often result in competitive, traditionally masculine behavior that upholds systems of oppression and exclusion. Less research is available on sororities, but given that brother and sister aspects of Greek life go hand in hand, it’s safe to assume the same at least partially holds true.
To be clear, spaces created in opposition to a toxic norm are not necessarily or inherently problematic. One of my high school mentors was recently inducted into Zeta Phi Beta, a historically Black sorority that emphasizes academic excellence and offers professional support for Black, female college students and graduates. She has nothing but praise for the organization. Most of the sororities I visited spoke about their diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives that encouraged cultural crossover and exchange. That being said, it takes active work to make sure such organizations stay part of the counterculture rather than getting swept up in the thrill of status improvement.
This is particularly difficult when colleges already uphold practices of exclusivity in gender, class and race. The women first battling exclusion in college were already better financially positioned than a great majority of their gender and entirely white; of the twelve housed sororities/frats at Stanford, none are part of the Divine Nine or the Multicultural Greek Council. Universities reinforce the issues propagated by students in and outside of Greek Life through inaction, taking a step back and allowing these institutions to continue as they are rather than pushing for reform.
For instance, a large motivation for sorority formation was professional opportunity – making connections with future employers. The class limitations that come with Greek Life complicate this. Member dues are expensive, and although Stanford provides a fund for national fees, funding is not guaranteed for all eligible applicants. Furthermore, social events can come with a prerequisite: money for an Uber, dinner or even an out-of-country plane ride. Community can exist for all participants, but it’s a lot easier to find when you can afford the time commitment and events.
Institutional and personal criticisms aside, I joined a sorority for a couple reasons. The conversations I had and the speeches I heard on public service at my new organization were heartfelt, genuine and inspiring. In a time of political upheaval that threatens everything from my education to the people I love, a positive and actionable space for internal and external improvement sounds pretty great. And ever since rush ended, I’ve been loving the activities we do as a group — I just wish the process of joining hadn’t been so individualistic, reinforcing competition that keeps women fighting each other instead of the systems that keep them working under terms passed down without question or challenge.
But mostly, I (maybe naively) hope I can make a difference in reestablishing sororities as what I envision: an explicit counterculture and challenge to a traditional education system rooted in white, male dominance. This path is easy to ignore, but if next year’s rush is marginally less tied to judging and comparing other women, I’ll consider it a win.
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