Not long after knowing me, you will quickly come to know that I dislike writing. I make it clear often enough. This is a problem, though, because my career goals require some form of the written word. Plus, artistry includes the verbal and literary modes of expression – authorship. Here is my first attempt at written creativity. I would call it personal essay/memoir style about my experiences this summer (voluntarily) living in a fraternity house. Only constructive critiques welcome.
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I get a brief satisfaction from telling the curious that I am currently living in a frat house. The look of surprise and esteem on their face puffs up my chest. Yes, I am doing the unthinkable: I am living in a frat house with frat brothers in a frat environment. However, their faces turn to pity and mild disgust after the initial esteem, and I remember that I am living in a frat house with frat brothers in a frat environment. So goes most of my conversations with the curious.
At the end of the school year when my summer internship was finally confirmed and I was desperately searching for a place to live, it was my dad of all people who suggested the frat house. Dear ole dad, class of 1982 and so proud that his eldest daughter was following in his footsteps at his alma mater, wanted her to follow even more closely by joining his fraternity, even just for the summer. While I was searching the webbie web for cool, spunky four-person apartments to sublease a room in – the kind of apartments with roof access, no elevator, and aspiring free spirit roommates – my dad was making his own inquiries at the house. Triumphantly, my dad presented me with the option of living at the fraternity for a whopping $550 for the whole summer (July through September). Hella cheap. Dad was proud of himself for swinging me the “brother rate” since I could technically be considered a legacy. This amazing price, combined with other factors like location and storage space, flung me into the deal, and next thing I knew I was in a three story old mansion, once a professor’s home, now a fraternity house.
I was also down the hall from the communal bathroom that had two stalls with commodes, two showers with barely tinted doors, a single urinal, and a three-sink counter covered in guy paraphernalia like electric razors and dirty dishes. The perfume á la summer frat bro was a decadent mixture of weed and piss.
I am ashamed to admit that I avoid pooping when a brother is also in the bathroom. Yes, I use present tense on purpose because I still avoid pooping in their presence.
However, I was determined to make it work. My first day in I laboriously moved my stuff from the basement storage space to my third floor room: arranged my bright red desk, put up the multitude of vintage magnets on the mini-fridge, placed my hats on the dresser, and added floral sheets to the queen-sized bed. This was a physical manifestation of wishful thinking. My room became my refuge, my “normal life” space where I could escape the daily rituals of bro-hood. In my corner room I did not have to partake in discussions on Nattie Light vs. PBR. My room housed my computer which contained the electronic versions of my friends who would talk to me about art, boys, and vacations instead of Tuesday-night partying, almost over-sleeping for your job, and working all day with hangovers from the night before. Most importantly, in the scorching month of July, my room had an in-window AC, my personal savior from the muggy, sweat-stained thick air of the rest of the house. Also, my room did not contain flies.
But, truly, the experience is not so awful as I make it sound. For the price I am paying, this might as well be a luxury cruise line, and the other residents can provide an enjoyable, if perplexing, company. There are the mornings when the fraternity president and I brush our teeth together in the bathroom. He is in a towel and I am in an oversized t-shirt. There are the customary salutations and not-so-invested queries on how we are each doing. Then we descend into such a wonderfully awkward silence.
Sometimes the gentleman who lives across the hall from the bathroom joins us with a chin nod as a greeting before assuming his position in front of the urinal. For the past few weeks he has been humming the Mad Men theme song, evidence of binge watching.
The kitchen is the most interactive space. In the past few days a small vase of flowers have appeared on the island and a portable radio is always tuned into the local NPR station playing classical tunes or thought-provoking interviews, depending on the hour. Some nights I am making tofu and broccoli next to the house’s number one cook who is preparing home-made gnocchi or risotto or black bean burgers. Being the summer, most of the brothers have been putting their grill to good use, and I’ll walk downstairs to find whole fish stuffed silly with spices or a row of hot dogs awaiting their crispy fate. Conversations are as in-depth as they are in the bathrooms, but occasionally there are some golden nuggets: the other night a brother I have never seen started a discussion with me about the benefits of tofu vs. chicken while he poured himself a glass of milk. Without questions about my name or why I was in the house, he cheerfully commented on the healthfulness of my meal and then resumed his night’s plans.
On one occasion, a fellow resident called me asking to be let in from the roof after he got locked out. When I opened the fire exit, he thanked me embarrassedly offering boredom as his excuse for being on the roof.
Shenanigans aside, my summer in the frat house, so far, has been neither a terrible nor a wonderful experience. To be quite honest, it is just like living in a male dorm. The beauty of college is that the student body is maturing every day, and with maturity comes a vague sense of cleanliness, respectful neighborly behavior, and polite conversation whether you’re a frat bro or not. This is why my conversations with the curious are underwhelming because the curious have high expectations of antics, and while I would love to play along and thrill them with gag stories, nothing bizarre has occurred. The frat bro, I have found, is really not so distinct a species, and I must say I am relieved.
Squatting Artist 