My high school was one of the best in the Chicago Public School system – academically superior, racially stable, with a host of after-school activities. A substantial percentage of students went on to college and success. It had the customary social divisions for the time: the cool kids, the hoody kids and the nerds, even though that word was not in use yet. Everyone pretty much knew where they belonged, but our school had a particularly vivid way of drawing the distinctions, at least for the white kids.
The black kids must have had their own stratification, but in our self-involvement, we got only a glimpse. Within our honors classes, there was a bit of a range from the ultrastudious twins, to the hardworking activity jock who ran the yearbook, to the glamorous girl who belted out the theme from Goldfinger at the talent show. We were school-friends, but never met outside of school, and never wondered why.
My drama played out on the border between the cool kids and everyone else. There were three sororities that exercised considerable power over the social structure not to mention our own fragile self-definitions. The first was for the upper crust girls. Prosperous, attractive, socially adept, they occupied the top rung of the social ladder, and no surprise, included the cheerleaders, the true elite. We’ll call them Group A, though they had a fancy three-Greek-letter name.
Group B was at the other extreme, the girls who were tougher, more likely to come from blue collar families, less concerned with the social niceties, less active in school activities or currying favor with teachers. The hoody girls.
Group C was in the middle, the regular girls, nice, often smart, busy with activities. I aspired to Group C.
On one level I knew better. I objected in principle to the concept of excluding girls based on some secret and specious measurement of their adequacy. But I was so entranced by the prospect of converting my outsider status (no father, no siblings) to become one who belonged, I abandoned my principles and went through rush, along with nearly all my friends.
The separation began right there. The nice plain girl with the white blouse and circle pin didn’t even try. And the quiet and socially awkward girl who sat near me in class stayed home too. I barely noticed. It was almost my birthday and I knew what I wanted this year. My new life was about to begin.
The separation began right there. The nice plain girl with the white blouse and circle pin didn’t even try. And the quiet and socially awkward girl who sat near me in class stayed home too. I barely noticed. It was almost my birthday and I knew what I wanted this year. My new life was about to begin.
I remember nothing about the rush parties, but I think they involved punch and cookies and favors. But I remember bid night perfectly. From my second floor apartment, sitting at my desk overlooking the intersection of 111th Street and Hoyne, I watched with excitement for the Group C car to pull up and bring me my invitation to join. The minutes ticked by.
When I saw the car approach, and then go whizzing on by, I realized that my big chance had vanished in their dust. I think I got on the phone with my best friend who was also awaiting her fate, but I couldn’t swear to it. I might have been mute with shame.
By the end of the night, it was clear that she was without a bid too. It seemed less tragic that way and we soon rose to the occasion, declaring ourselves GDIs – God Damned Independents. I think we even made up GDI sweatshirts. It was only spring of sophomore year after all, and we had to construct some sort of social identity that would see us through the coming three years.
All our friends pledged Group C and were soon wearing pledge ribbons, attending meetings and receiving orders to bake chocolate chip cookies and deliver them to the house of this or that “active.” With the cookies and other demands, it started to dawn on me that I might not have been very well suited to pledgehood anyway. I had better things to do than bake other people cookies, didn’t I?
All our friends pledged Group C and were soon wearing pledge ribbons, attending meetings and receiving orders to bake chocolate chip cookies and deliver them to the house of this or that “active.” With the cookies and other demands, it started to dawn on me that I might not have been very well suited to pledgehood anyway. I had better things to do than bake other people cookies, didn’t I?
The only friend who deviated joined Group B, the one her sister belonged to. She and I always walked to school together, so I saw her toting her cookie orders and watched her sister’s friend ordering her around. She didn’t seem to be having that much fun.
Two weeks later another friend, a successful Group C pledge, invited me over for Saturday night. She said that she invited some other girls too. Just what I needed, I thought, a respite from the social anguish of the past days. I got dropped off, walked into her living room, and was engulfed by 12 girls yelling Happy Birthday. They gave me a huge homemade card and a cake. And the most therapeutic surprise I’ve ever had.
We had such fun that we decided to meet again and again for what we came to call hen parties. We named ourselves The Crew and drank Diet Rite, ate shortbread cookies and had more fun than anyone.
The months went by, and rush season came around again. I put my hat in the ring again, generously providing Group C the opportunity to correct their mistake. Once again, they declined.
I did get visits that bid night from the other two. I sensed that Group A was quite certain that I would gratefully take them up on it. And that Group B was motivated by respect for my walking-to-school friend who must have urged them to include me. It must have been that, because we all knew that I was a goody-two-shoes who couldn’t begin to keep up with the hoody girls.
What did I do? The most contrary thing I could. I turned down Group A, explaining that I didn’t feel I would fit in, silently enjoying their disbelief. I accepted Group B in thanks to my friend and their willingness to accept an unusual candidate. I dropped out within a week, on the eve of my first cookie order. She understood.
By then, half of my Crew friends had grown weary of the indignities they’d suffered as pledges, and the painful process of rush. One dropped out of Group C, others barely attended their meetings, and one ended up president. We each found our own way.
In the gifts where you least expect them department, The Crew has lived on to be a sustaining force in my life ever since that 15th year birthday party. We’re meeting at Lake Tahoe this summer, and will continue until we conk out for good. I sure didn’t get what I wanted, but ended up with so much more than I imagined.
CBH 01/09
