I’d like to begin with a quote. Many of you have probably heard it before: “Choose your friends — or in this case, sisters — carefully; for they are a direct reflection of who you are.”
In my case, this was the first and only piece of advice I received from my crazy Aunt Marge upon entering my first year of college.
As you can guess, I was born into an intrinsically Greek lineage. With a wide inventory of schools and chapters on both sides, my family’s scrapbooks feature an obscene amount of sorority hand signage, undersized khaki shorts, and red solo cups.
This familial panhellenic pride seems to only grow with age… Recently, I’ve executed a six-month-long political campaign to assure my father — a devout former UNC Phi Delt — that my boyfriend, a DKE alum — is not a total “delinquent.”
Needless to say, come college, I was expected to honor my heritage, and go greek.
The problem… was my intense habit of breaking tradition — first manifest to my parents by my 6th grade stint with nudism and later, by my insistence on going to school 3000 miles away. Naturally, concern rose that I might jump ship and become — God forbid — an independent.
I was skeptical, to say the least, of joining a sorority, which — under the tutelage of Aunt Marge, TSM, and “The House Bunny” — I perceived as an elite cloning factory of impossibly polished females who vow to communicate strictly through acronyms, clichés, and selfies.
Indeed, going through recruitment, I encountered this vibe from a few houses… where spray tans and monograms seemed mandatory, and suddenly I was embarrassed for having never met “Jack Rogers.” Near the end of round 1, when a gal’s fake eyelash dripped off of her face and onto my leg — I was done. This was not for me.
I hobbled into that little white house on the left expecting the same ole infomercial. What I found was refreshingly — real. As hard as I tried, I could not stereotype these girls! This was no one-note sorority… this was a shmorgusboard of looks, personalities, lifestyles, and music tastes.
Each and every Tri Delt was so cool in her own way… there was no advertising or trying too hard. These were the type of girls I wanted to hang with, to laugh with, to grow with… to destroy hungover Friday onion rings with.
By the end of recruitment, I had had my choice of houses. Don't get me wrong — I loved a few other places, but I was hardcore smitten with Tri Delt.
Two years later, and we’re still going strong.
What I’ve come to find? With any sorority, you’ll probably have a “sister” in a class or two. With Tri Delt? You’ll probably have a sister in most states and countries.
With another sorority? You might look around the kitchen and see exactly what Aunt Judy predicted — a direct reflection of yourself.
With Tri Delt? You’ll see a crew of women diverse as hell. We’ve got Brits, we’ve got dancers, we’ve got Jews, we’ve got Grateful Dead enthusiasts, athletes galore… even a preacher’s daughter sprinkled in the mix… [me]
With all due respect to Marge, she was wrong. This place — these girls — are by no means mirrors of each other.
We’re a Breakfast Club. But what we do all have in common? Is our century old motto — We steadfastly love one another. Join Tri Delt, ladies, and you will never be short on Instagram likes.
Thank you.
