What does being greek mean to me? everything.
NYU isn’t known for its greek life, but at a student population of more than 3,000 members of greek organizations (fraternities, sororities, and multicultural groups), maybe it should be.
I posted about my pre-recruitment thoughts here and, looking back, I can’t fathom that I ever doubted joining a sorority. I’ll write a process piece later about recruitment, the hell week in the beginning of the semester when you mutually select your way to sisterhood (so fancy), but for now you get the happy ending only.
My entire university experience has been shaped by being in a sorority, and I get how that scares some people. It’s honestly only because I chose to let it be so dominant in my life— it can be considerably less of a commitment than I make it if you want, but once I joined, there was no going back. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of girl.
And, for that matter, so are my sisters. We are from everywhere, do everything, major in every different possible major— from physics to museum studies to film to engineering to communicative sciences and disorders. I love them all deeply and they have been the constant figures as I have navigated the first semesters of college. Kate and I go to hockey games on Saturday nights. Emily and I bond over Teen Wolf. Gabby and I are basically inseparable. They mark the rhythm of what my life looks like now.
Baby, for a long time, has been reading A Short History of Modern Philosophy, It doesn't console her. Marxism's lasting value doesn't console her. The death of timelessness into history can't console her self, self, self, aware, alienated, realizing. She accumulates, like surplus value, years recorded on a driver’s license. Too much wonderful self to go around, she goes around, a fit of pique and torque. She hopes for a modish personality disorder, and poof, her wish is granted. Her shrink, forgiveably, yawns. The sound of Baby’s love's a ticking escalator in an empty airport somewhere in Bahrain. Now Baby yawns. The sound of her love's the infinitesimal wrinkling of a teabag drying in a saucer in the 12th Arrondisement. The sound of her love's the whirling death of a moth in a web strung between branches of sagebrush in Utah. Baby doesn’t want to: a) Change. b) Not change.
We’re at about the 55-week mark of Operation: Short Hair, and it’s nearing its end. From the original chop in early February to the accidental almost-buzz cut two days before prom to this November’s unfortunate mullet, it’s been quite the ride.
Last Thursday morning, I had the opportunity to wake up at 6am, trudge though the snow pre-dawn and stand in line for two hours to see Hillary Clinton and Melinda Gates have a discussion, moderated by Chelsea Clinton, about the importance of collecting data to improve the status of women and girls worldwide.
I had front-row seats. It was so incredibly cool.
note to self: don’t fly back to campus less than 12 hours before class begins. if you do, though, make sure to get a cab driver who goes 12 blocks in 30 seconds, because it’s pretty fun.
over break I figured out what I want to do with my life, which isn’t terrible. now I get to pursue it. aren’t I lucky?
one week down, fifteen to go.
Once upon a time, the cable that connected the hard drive to the logic board in my laptop decided to disconnect itself. That was last May.
Unfortunately, it also happened five and a half weeks ago. So that’s where I’ve been. In the meantime, I had Christmas, and New Year’s, went to Florida and Pittsburgh, saw some people, did some stuff, experienced ungodly amounts of snow and now I’m about to return, phoenix-esque, to New York.
Semester 2: I’m back.
midday Christmas cheer!