Me? Rushing??
The elusive life of a fraternity boy has never been appetizing to me – an almost silly charade of smelly men, beer, and boat shoes with no socks. I understood the intrigue, yet the frivolity surrounding the actual reasons I would join deterred me, and I gladly resigned to a geed experience within my first few days here at Berkeley.
Along comes a random, August Tuesday. With a quick buzz and the flashing of my Lana del Rey adorned phone screen, I see a text from an unknown number appear. Well acquainted with this kind of deal (I sign up for every newsletter to get 15% off my first purchase), I almost paid the notification no mind, but the opening, “Sup Roman,” had me much more intrigued than any Wildflower Cases Promo text ever could. The message read as follows (100% accurate):
“Sup Roman, this is ____, one of the rush deps of OOzma Kappa. Just wanted u to know that our first rush event is tmr at 7. We be grilling burgers at the house , swing by if you want to meet some of the boys . Should be a good time , cheers”
Safe to say I was incredibly moved by this poetic gesture. I mean… why not? I now have a somewhat concrete reason to be there: at the very very least, it's a burger.
6 PM struck the next evening, and to my own surprise, I found myself getting ready for a rush event. I stared blankly at my carefully curated mess of a closet, and, for the first time ever, felt rather uninspired. What does one even wear to a rush event? After tearing my wardrobe to a mass of colorful shreds, I finally settled on my skinniest pair of wide leg jeans, a blue Hawaiian shirt with the quietest print, some loafers, and a baseball cap (to butch it up duh). A cute outfit by my standards, but, though I couldn’t see it at the time, it was the most painfully ‘manly’ outfit I have ever put on.
I walked up the steps to the OOzma Kappa house, marked by a pillar of barbeque smoke and surrounded by a moat of scrawny pledges-to-be. Even in my version of subdued attire, I stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of striped tees and golf shorts. Needless to say, I was out of my element. Even as an avid conversationalist raised to hold myself with confidence, this was uncharted territory: dap ups, football, the economy, amongst other “alpha college male” things. I remember floating around for a minute, before a heavily mustached man gave me a hello, a pat on the back, and a hamburger, followed by a swift disappearing act. I sighed. Once again I was left to my own devices in a maze of people and things I did not know.
I was suddenly approached by a ‘brother’ who said he liked my hat, and we naturally slipped into a great conversation. I felt a sense of solace in the recognition of my outfit choice, adjusted my cap, and pushed on. Soon another ‘brother’ dapped me up saying he liked my jeans, and then another who liked my shirt, and then another who liked my shoes. Slowly I gained back some of my usual confidence, and even began approaching others myself, breaking the ice with my own compliments, mentions of thrifting, and fashion wishlists. I remember sparking a convo with one guy, opening by saying I liked his birkenstocks and had a pair myself. The conversation evolved into my favorite of the night, talking about footwear first, but soon progressing into a genuine exchange of stories, advice, and laughs. It ended with him getting my information, always a good sign during Rush Week, and urging me to come back for the rest of the rush events. After contentedly retreating back to my dorm, I kept sensing the eerie feeling of being watched, which I ignored until I went to my closet to change. Lo and behold, I was met with a dozen somber, confused faces of all the clothes I had wanted to wear, but had consciously told myself not to, because they were too bright, too weird, too gay. I briefly sobered up from my new fraternity high, but as quick as these fleeting anxieties came, I brushed them aside; I had a great, successful night! Right? I went to bed with a strange, new brotherly validation, but a small side of equally strange shame I tried my hardest to disregard.
The details of the rest of my week aren’t relevant, besides maybe the fact that I dropped not too long after this first barbeque. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brushed those “fleeting” anxieties off so quickly. I kept telling everyone it just “wasn’t for me,” and while that wasn’t untrue, the experience left me with an almost empty feeling I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Looking back on each of these exchanges, I couldn’t help but notice a common denominator: my clothes. The only connections I was making was through fashion, and it makes sense, considering I was in a totally new environment and my style was something I could use as a crutch. Yes, these compliments and conversations did give me the validation I was looking for at the time, but as time went by they fell flat. Getting ready in the mornings after I dropped, putting on the loudest, fuzziest sweaters, my friends bedazzled cowboy boots, and, God forbid, the color pink, I soon realized why my rush process was doomed from the start.
Clothes really can tell the whole story. The outfit you wear does truly have an effect on the way you feel, both positive and negative, and this experience proved that. When I put on my outfit on the very first day, I felt “good” in the context of the situation. However, the outfit was only good for making me feel like someone I wasn’t. It was true I was making connections based on these clothes. Isn’t that what these networking events are all about? Yes, except for the fact these connections were based on false precedent. Your outfit can make you feel like your best self, or a person you don’t even know— although the way you present can connect you to others, if built on a facade, it can easily disconnect you from your true self.
The freedom and expression of personal style can be sacred to the individual, regardless of who recognizes it and who doesn’t. It’s an outlet, an art form, a way of pushing the boundaries as well as celebrating the self and identity; one that shouldn’t ever have to be sacrificed for the feeling of inclusion or pressure of conformity. As stupid as it sounds, who knows what I’d be doing right now had I not listened to myself, and my closet. I probably wouldn’t have found such an interesting and well-fitting Garb community where I get to do what I love and tell stories like these.
About a week later I ran into Birkenstock boy. He gave me a nod and we immediately reconnected over both having our Bostons on. The conversation pivoted to rush, and why it didn’t play out, but before I could even explain myself he shrugged it off and told me I was better off. A few minutes later and a well wish, I happily closed this fraternal chapter of my college experience.
