The writer of this article wishes to remain anonymous in order to be candid about the happenings she witnessed.
It was raining. Not pouring but coming down hard enough to ruin the buzz my friends had been building before setting out for our destinations. For our single-girls night out, the pregame was necessary for planning our night. We had four stops to make and wanted to be in bed by 1:30. My drink of choice was a mini Cherry Slush Alani and a sparkling water to-go. I was sober (I had to keep my wits about me for this article).
The first stop was Sig. The building was deemed historically significant by the Blue Grass Trust, but to those walking up its pot-hole driveway, the house was most famous for its social significance. The place looks like it might just topple over if someone hit the brick hard enough.
We walked through the wooden gate into the back yard and were welcomed with a candy bowl of snack-pack Haribos and Starbursts. Instant hospitality. After grabbing a treat, we went in the back door to the kitchen.
I found my friend who dates a guy in the frat and then a few other familiar faces. People seem to really enjoy hugging when they’re drunk. As we were chatting about our cold-and-rainy four-minute trek, a guy I hadn’t met before came up to us. He was pretty out-of-the-way. Slurred words, slow (but fast?) movements, deadpan zoning out mid-sentence. All in a long black hair wig. I think he was Slash from Guns N’ Roses?
He seemed nice enough but it was only 10:45. In my experience, these parties don’t start to die down until 2 in the morning. Slash had quite a night ahead of him. Was someone gonna stop him from grabbing another drink?
My friends wanted drinks and I wanted to find more characters. Here’s the lay of the land: the basement—drinks and dancing, first floor—kitchen and pong, second floor—bathroom and peace, third floor—balcony and “the green room” (IYKYK). The basement was really a cave. The door from there to the backyard stayed open to vent all the body heat from the dance floor. It was packed tighter than the spandex pants I was wearing. (Sorry, can’t tell you what my costume was or else this wouldn’t be anonymous.)
Later I heard about a near-fight between a couple brothers. Some minor choking, totally unprovoked. It was broken up pretty quickly. Word on the street is the guy who started it was suspended until further notice. I’m glad we left Sig before things got too real.
On the way to the PIKE house, we passed a trio of short-skirted, corseted blondes who gave us a “have a good night guys” as we split into single file on the sidewalk behind the old soccer field. I wondered if they were just getting started. It was almost midnight.
Shivering, my friends and I questioned whether this was worth the cold-to-come.
“I mean, it’s part of the experience. Right?”
The minutes spent at PIKE were like our walk there—not short enough to complain about but long enough to be uncomfortable. Going into the house to dance, we were met with immediate heat. It radiated from the spray-sparkled, barely covered bodies wiggling around on the dancefloor. The floor was covered in the mud everyone had to trudge through to get there. With no welcome mat to wipe my shoes on, I felt sorry for contributing to it before filtering in.
I thought, I wonder what this would be like without music. And laughed out loud, to myself.
The line for the bathroom was unbearably long for those who had already “broken the seal.” I bet I could have walked back to my own dorm 300 yards away, relieved myself, and walked back before it was my turn. Deciding to do just that, we headed out. They weren’t playing bangers anyway.
Replenished by a clean, sanitary bathroom break at the dorms, we decided to go to the remaining two frats. It was 12:30. The rain had let up and we decided to hit Phi Tau next. I think Phi Tau gets a bad rap for having mid parties but, what can they do? Their close proximity to campus means they’re an easy target for campus police, so they can only get so wild. And is there any such thing as a “good” frat party? Hold that thought.
Getting down to the dance floor was the safety hazard of the century. Access to the basement was a literal hole in the floor, opened by a cellar-type door. If you misstep on the macbook-wide stairs, you’re done. It wasn’t very busy down there, maybe because people didn’t want to hassle with the whole life-flashing-before-your-eyes bit. After exploring the living room, sans furniture, my friend and I looked at each other.
“We came, we saw, we left?”
“Yeah.”
The finale of the night was KA. We were let in another wooden fence gate after the guys gauged us to be fellow students. We made our way to the half-converted garage known as “The Chapel.” The mucky walkway of stepping stones scattered about—in no particular order—was made worse by the darkness. My friends and I mourned our heels but reminded each other, again, it was part of the experience.
The lack of visibility somehow got worse once we got inside. The black lights made everyone’s teeth glow and their eyes look like they belonged to a mythical creature. Is that who I think it is?
My friends were at least findable in the crowd since their costumes were partly white. I was wearing all black.
The spray painted banner that read “CHAPEL” was hung behind the makeshift DJ post, reminding you where you were. A group of four guys were on some kind of stage beside the speaker, singing along and doing their frat flicks. They were living for the attention. And there I was, giving it.
Same as every house we visited, it was sweltering: the heat was blasting to combat the outside cold and the body-to-body crowd only made it worse. KA had the best music, I can’t lie. While my friends and I danced to fan favorites by Pitbull, Waka Flocka Flame, and, yes, Taylor Swift, we found other girls we had seen at previous houses. We mouthed the lyrics to each other—“You’ll be the prince and I’ll be the princess / It’s a love story baby just say yes”—as if we would never get to hear the song again.
But there was something about our final stop that made my stomach turn, and I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol.
Waiting for the bathroom in another concert-level line, overhearing intoxicated conversations—it just made me sad. After seeing about five girls stumble out of the bathroom, slurring their apologies for taking so long, I thought back to the guy from Sig. How is he doing right now?
I checked the time, it was 1:30. After the bathroom, I had to use my elbows as if I was moshing to get through the crowd. It was uncomfortable and frustrating and sort of gross. I wasn’t having fun anymore. I was ready to go home.
On the way back to my friends, I kept catching flash-scenes of people: Do they really think this is as good as it gets? Wouldn’t the couples who “really love each other” prefer to show their affection behind closed doors? Is that girl okay? Does she know the guy she’s hanging off of right now?
My own past party experiences reminded me of how familiar these feelings were. To make me feel better, I made a mental rundown of the costumes I’d seen: Walter White from “Breaking Bad,” Megamind, Jinu from KPop Demon Hunters, Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, Dale Gribble from “King of the Hill,” assorted Spongebobs.
I did have fun singing to Taylor Swift with the girlies. But I had serious pause when I considered dancing like nobody was watching. Is that just because I am a woman who has been objectified before? Is that because I myself had been judging some girls for their costumes being too revealing? Am I just not woke enough? HELP.
I get why people drink at parties; they are nearly unbearable when you’re sober. People yelling in your ear and you still don’t hear all they say. Uncomfortable moments of couples being too heavy with PDA. Would these people act like this if they weren’t wasted? Most of them probably wouldn’t. So, it’s weird. The only thing to do at a party is get a drink. But then the drinking is what makes the party horrible at the same time. It’s a sick, sick cycle.
This isn’t a diss on fraternities but, yeah, it’s a surefire diss on party culture. It encourages excessive drinking, which presents sincere safety concerns. If the only place your classmates talk to you is at a party–-while you’re under the influence–-are those relationships worthwhile?
When you are out with friends make sure they actually are friends. People who you can trust. People who make smart decisions about alcohol intake. People that will be there for you if something goes wrong.
Be safe out there. For real.
