Every young, independent and smart 18-year-old girl remembers her first college experience. Maybe it was trudging two-and-a-half miles across campus to find the location of the party had been moved to the other frat house (they have more than one?). Every girl’s experience differs, although there are similarities among us. We are all nervous. We all have really no idea what’s going on, the protocol, “Do you think I can ask those passing party-goers where Benny is!?” the attire. It’s truly hit-or-miss. But every girl’s first college experience, her first step into that new world of magic and wonder, shapes them for what is to be.
My first frat party was a night of mystery, a night of growing and learning, reaching for something beyond what I had experienced before.
My first frat party was a cramped, dark, damp basement. The smell of sweat and stale foamy beer consuming the air, and people were acting in ways I had never witnessed. I guess you could say I got what I wish for.
There were so many things to handle. Where do I put my jacket? is a question I found myself asking later in the year. I learned a multitude of places work, from the bushes outside to the dryer. One time, I pulled my fracket out of the dryer so carelessly (it was a late night) that I wore the boy’s boxers all the way home. My friend had an older sister who told us to put our fobs for our dorms on a hair tie we could keep on our wrist. She told us the method had survived many harmful nights on her behalf. I believed her, and on my wrist my fob went. By the end of the night, it was still gone.
These wedges were a good idea in the dorm, when I stood next to my 5-11 model roommate for pictures. I thought they looked great and complimented my legs. I was wearing shorts. Shorts and heels? What the hell? Didn't I completely trash girls in high school who did so? But it was my first night of college. These were the sorts of things you did. Frat basement stairs are not meant for Mossimo wedges your mom got you at Target for graduation. Your legs may look long, your ass may look better, but when you enter the world that is a frat basement, nobody sees that shit, and more importantly, nobody cares.
And by God is it HOT. You look great in those pictures beforehand, where you're all dolled up with the girls who you just met down the hall (You’re not quite sure about one of them. We'll see what happens.) pre-gaming with clear water bottles in your cramped dorm room, trying to create a party-atmosphere that was RA-proof. When you go to make out with that kid on the dance floor, know this: you don’t look like that. You don’t look a fraction of that person. Your hair sticks to you because of the heat, you can't use your hair tie because your FOB is on it, and that perfectly placed mascara is probably forming cocoons under your eyes.
Don't worry, he'll make out with you anyway.
As I looked around my first night of college at my first frat party, my future surroundings, I noticed one thing. I felt it in the air, I felt it when I talked to other people, when I was pushed in line waiting for a keg that seemed to pour two beers every five minutes. I looked around and I saw it, and I somehow knew it wasn’t the shots I had taken earlier. I saw common ground. I saw a bunch of young kids, none of whom know each other, all trying to follow the same routine and step to the same beat. And TO know each other. The basement was hot, dark and sweaty, the music was too loud for me to tell my friend Gianna I needed to use the bathroom. But in that moment, I felt a different place. I saw blackness arrayed by strings of light, all flashing colors. I saw Greek letters proudly graffitied on the wall of the basement, and girls posing with the letters. I heard music pump through me, I felt the need to dance. I saw people laughing, yelling, dancing. A girl in the corner’s friend held her while she bawled her eyes out about something or another. Drunken tears it seemed to me. I felt something, and I have always been a bit of a feeler, a reacher. I always want something more from an experience, I want to carry pieces of these experiences around with me, and I do.
My first frat party showed me I wasn't so different from anyone else, and they weren't so different from me. I mean, we were all just kids really. We were all away from home for our first time, some kids using that newfound freedom a little more than those who may have been used to it. We were all looking for the same thing, trying to reach the same goal by making it on our own and learning how to be 18 years old. We were all sort of confused, some more than others. But we all helped each other. I did ask those girls where Benny street was that night, and I got a respectful answer and direction. I danced like an idiot, a mix of the alcohol and adrenaline, and nobody cared. They danced along. I stumbled home when they kicked everybody out, my two new friends arm-in-arm, trying to figure out where in the hell we were going, being obnoxious and careless because we knew in this time, we could be.
Youth is a journey. College is a ship sailed within that progress. You get knocked around a bit, whether it be in the classroom or socially. Sometimes you get knocked down a few pegs. Your world opens, your knowledge of life at that moment is nothing compared to what it becomes. Youth is a journey, and we grow, but we do not change. We do not become "older," we just age. Our older selves are just evolved and reformed versions of our younger selves, and our desire and curiosity is replaced with wisdom and experience.
In my first year of college, I have learned to devour this curiosity. To drench myself in it completely without hesitation or question. At 18, at 19, at 22, you should immerse yourself in as many things and people as possible. They say “youth is wasted on the young." Do not let this ring true. Be true to yourself, to your character, be true to your desires. This is your time to be selfish with your time and energy, and do not let yourself be told otherwise.
Most importantly, be kind and welcoming to others. We are all shooting at the same basket.
