A row of fraternity houses, located on Spruce Street.
Credit: Oscar Vasquez
When I was accepted to Penn, my friends and family were convinced I was going to be famous.
After all, I was going to enroll in the school where the current American president held the title of Benjamin Franklin Presidential Professor of Practiceand the name engraved on my mascara tube now called freshman dorm. Among the sea of nearly 10,000 undergraduates, I would surely talk – and maybe even befriend – someone who lived outside the obscure life of the average person.
During one of the many coffee chats that marked my early days as a Quaker, the topic of the so-called Penn scene came up during my conversation with a fellow freshman.
“I know a girl who knows a guy somewhere in Eastern Europe,” she began. “He snuck into a party and saw several of them.”
My friend was obviously referring to the members of the so-called scene. Students are so elusive that no one outside their immediate circle knows about their major, their dorm, or, often, their existence. They are not the students we expect to encounter on Locust Walk while walking to class.
That evening, I had spent much of my time holed up in my dorm, binge-watching a Turkish series in the name of immersive language learning. I needed air.
At 1:00 a.m., I made the foolish decision to cross the intersection of 34th and Walnut Street. It was near the weekend and someone was about to throw a drug-infused event at a “fraternity house.”
As I expected, the gates to these exclusive social activities were strict. These disreputable entry setups varied by host, but admission guidelines generally ranged from membership in a renowned social circle to adherence to a predetermined dress code.
In front of me, a fraternity brother momentarily left his place next to the crowd manager to speak directly to those of us waiting in line. “This,” he gestured broadly, “is my job every week. I know some of you have never been here. For a brief moment, our eyes connected.
“Do you know anyone inside?” he asked me in what seemed like a state of feigned sobriety.
I gave him an impassive look. “Yes.”
And I did. I knew several members of this rather popular fraternity. However, if he had asked me if I had received the coveted invitation to this clearly closed event, my answer would not have been as confident.
He tapped his phone and perched on a bench next to the Steinberg-Dietrich room. Beneath the canopy of leaves formed by the trees lining Locust Walk, eager students were in various states of undress.
And with this provocative sight, I left.
Clearly, I hadn’t yet earned the required popularity credit to even afford the figurative ticket of entry. As I learned, my depravity was not due to my lack of friends. I’m more from South Carolina. This is not the elegant seaside French Quarter of tourist Charleston, but the rural prairies and middle- and low-income suburbs that make up much of the state. That makes sense, I guess. When has the sorority girl ever come from Central America or the old plantations of the Deep South?
In a possible bout of fatigue, I had considered Greek life as the evil that lies behind human stupidity. To advance even slightly in the social hierarchy at Penn, would I have to spend evenings abandoning my executive function? Maybe I sound like the “prude” I was considered to be in middle school, but we live in controversial times. With many eyes on usAren’t we responsible for maintaining at least a semblance of dignity off campus?
And to my dismay, I realized that this culture was embraced by many South Asian American students at Penn. These are my people – people who, as Americans themselves, don’t question the authenticity of my Lowcountry slang, but can also relate to my difficulties in applying for an Indian visa. Nonetheless, I found it difficult to engage with the community beyond small talk at parties or the occasional show.
Penn’s South Asian Society hosts an annual “Back 2 School” night at a club in downtown Philadelphia and Penn Dhamaka, our all-male South Asian dance troupe, recently hosted an after-show party in North Center City. As usual, drinks flowed freely at these events. My intention is not to show virtue, but I am disappointed to see the extent to which even cultural organizations are complicit in maintaining the stratification inherent in party life.
Fraternity and sorority life, as well as the broader scene culture, undermine the primary purpose of college education: the pursuit of new experiences and new relationships. Inevitably, my social circle at Penn doesn’t differ much from the socioeconomic demographics of South Carolina. Clearly, it’s time for us to rethink what it really means to foster a community that embraces diversity rather than one that perpetuates exclusivity.
Although I now view membership in this scene and all its benefits as a double-edged sword that does not receive its due criticism, I do not think I will continue my attempts to confine this lifestyle to the ” good” or “bad”. .” If the individuals who make up such societies can pursue their personal interests while maintaining compassion for their classmates, the intention to form a sister or fraternity is almost… healthy? And in that case, I might regret writing this column.
MRITIKA SENTHILE is a freshman majoring in management and Russian and Eastern European studies in Columbia, South Carolina. His email is mritikas@upenn.edu.
