We No Speak Americano: Please refrain from getting your freak on
I think it’s time to talk about the frat scene. As I type, I can hear the sound of hundreds of young Dartmouth men shaking in their little snow-boots.
Unfortunately, I have gone through that rite de passage that the female students of Dartmouth must go through at least once in their undergraduate lives, namely having their heart broken by a dastardly Frat boy. What’s worse is that he told me that he “wasn’t like all the other guys”, that he was “different”. Sadly that relationship didn’t last very long, much like something else I might add...
I came to Dartmouth thinking that the frat brothers would be respectable, suit-wearing gentlemen, whose idea of a party was standing in front of a roaring fire holding brandy glasses and discussing the impact of Greece’s economy on Europe. Maybe there’d be a string quartet in the corner. And then the butler would open the front door, and I’d swan in in a flurry of snow, fur coat brushing the marble floor... who am I kidding. I’ve seen“The Social Network”. I fully expected to end the evening dancing on a table in my knickers.
But still. I was not expecting public urination. Nor the absence of much-needed hand washing. I did not anticipate just how unhygienic beer pong could get. I was horrified by the amount of sweat I got drenched in, of which only 2% was my own. I was not expecting to get so sticky. I shall be sending Tri-Kapp the bill for a new pair of shoes.
Saturday nights back in Edinburgh are spent watching the X-factor with my female flatmates, eating cereal in our pyjamas, before calling it a night at 9.30. My freshman days — a period of my life which is slightly blurry due to the vast amount of ethanol that I consumed — occurred two years ago. Now I am catching up on my sleep.
So I suppose that, while your frat parties are novel sociological examples of male domination and resemble the mating ritual of the phoenicopterus andinus, the very essence of what goes on is not new to me. I have had four years of male college student crap being pulled on me. The frat basements are the playgrounds of brothers, some of whom technically are men but act like little kids. Some lack the imagination to employ effective seduction techniques, and therefore can only approach a girl who is so inebriated that she probably thinks she’s being hugged by a Teletubby.
So the next time a man-child, thinking he’s all that because he has a room upstairs which he shares with the frat dog, makes a crappy pass at me, I shall answer thus: “Sir, I am not an 18 year old girl. I am a 22 year old woman. You are really not The Shit. Therefore please refrain from rubbing yourself on my leg.”