Full Send: I Spent 48 Hours As A Frat Bro
DISCLAIMER: Some names have been changed for privacy, as I could not find it within myself to reach out to over 20 frat brothers to ask whether or not they would like their name to be changed. Names that have been changed will be indicated with a *. The frat and school itself will not be mentioned, again, for privacy purposes.
I know. I know. It’s true. I spent 48 hours, 48 dedicated, action-packed, dehydrated hours, as an honorary frat brother. I went on this trip expecting a normal visit with my brother Mike, whom I don’t see often since we live hours away from each other, and I came back so inspired by his frat that you and I are both sitting here now, looking at this article dumbfounded.
Here’s the thing: I’m writing this to wholeheartedly denounce my original stance of rallying against frat life. Greek life? Who’s to say what it’s called at this point. The most important thing here is that I, Dani Brand, have changed my mind. Some of you may not know how difficult of a feat that is. Trust my words when I tell you that this is rare.
Allow me the honor of setting the scene for you. I decided to visit my twin brother’s college in Upstate New York. The last time I visited him he was just a young, doe-eyed, nearly-broken-spirited pledge. So naturally, it wasn’t the best time for a visit. I barely got to see him, and he was mildly aggravated at all times. Needless to say, my expectations were low for the trip I took this past weekend.
Alas, now he is a brother. Things have changed.
As I sat in the passenger’s seat of Mike’s car, tensions grew as he anxiously warned me of many things. His house was a mess, I would be sleeping on an oversized beanbag in the living room, they lived on the bad side of town, so on and so forth. I could tell he was nervous, and I tried to put on my best “I’m calm” face.
We arrived at his house and pulled into the wildly narrow driveway. Walking up the stairs, a poster of Bill Nye stared back at me from behind glass. I questioned its placement on his front door and Mike informed me that the poster was there when they moved in. He then took a doorknob out from a (secret) place and jammed it into the door, pressed a code quickly into the padlock, and swung the door open.
There I was, standing before the belly of the beast.
I was lucky enough to receive a full house tour after their pledges had cleaned the house. Mike told me they heard I was coming, so their Pledge Master (and one of Mike’s roommates), Bruce*, had a couple of the pledges clean up. Nice guys.
On each floor there are some bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Upstairs was noticeably cleaner than downstairs. My brother showed off his vast collection of food—a 10-pound bag of rice, 3 boxes of ramen, a Taco Bell taco dinner kit box, one pound of frozen meat and about 5 expired fruits and vegetables.
We went downstairs and were welcomed by plenty of mismatched chaises and couches ranging from a deep camel brown leather sofa to a (hopefully) ketchup-stained lime green chair. This room led to a connected dining room with sparse decor. There was a simple brown wooden table adorned by a broken glass bong with red roses sticking out of it. The charm of this place? Undeniably off the hook.
Downstairs was the legendary and prophetic standard frat house basement. There were no real lights, but instead the string kind that are red, blue and purple. They had also built a wooden bar themselves enforced with steel on the inside and spray-painted the walls with inspirational words like “Titties” and “ASS”... of course, I had to add my initials.
Now that I’ve laid out the setting for you, let’s get into the good stuff.
My brother, Bruce, Bruce’s girlfriend Heather*, and I had a pledge drive us to the party happening that night. Bruce ended up walking. The pledge, George*, dropped us off a few blocks away from my brother’s house. We piled in through the side door and landed in their living room. My mouth gaped at the sight before me.
The walls were basically crumbling. The furniture, meager as it was, was all compacted into one space in the middle of the living room. The bass of the song playing downstairs thumped through the dirty wooden floorboards. The door to the bathroom was off its hinges, resting gently on the frame. I turned to Mike.
“People live like this? Like, people pay to live here?”
He nodded and laughed. He explained that out of all of the houses his frat inhabits, this is one of the few “beater” houses. His house was considered standard. We waded through the darkness into the basement.
Of course, this is a school that many people from my hometown attend, so I was gleefully welcomed by quite a few familiar faces. Almost immediately, I was offered a conspicuous purple beverage housed by a red cup. I figured this was the beloved Jungle Juice my brother spoke so fondly of. I finished it quickly.
Throughout the entire night, I talked to all of the members of Mike’s frat that ended up coming. We joked around, shouted our ambitions over loud music, sang karaoke, and overall had a great time. Everyone expressed to me how much they loved my brother, and although it was no surprise to me, it still made my heart melt.
We eventually left the beater house around two in the morning. We went back to Mike’s with his friend Dan* that I had first met two years ago. It was cold, so we moved fast. All I remember was trying not to step on the cracks and lines in the sidewalk. When I looked up, we were standing before my brother’s house. I heated some ramen upstairs, brought it back downstairs and, yes, spilled some on my hand and burned myself instantly. While I was settling in, I was the only one who jumped when I heard someone slam through the front door.
“Does anyone know how to sew?” said one of Mike’s roommates, Mac*, as he drunkenly stumbled through the room. Gavin*, the pledge that they lived with, jumped up far too quickly. We all knew how to sew. But that boy? He was acting like he was raised by a seamstress. It was remarkable. Mac turned around and pulled down his pants to reveal his red and white bottom.
“I got shot in the ass,” he said calmly.
Above all the clamor and chaos, I ordered Gavin to get some vodka, because I knew these guys didn’t even have bandages, let alone some rubbing alcohol and Neosporin. We all guided Mac to his room and Gavin made him lie down on the bed, facedown. Mike told Gavin to get a plastic spoon. Gavin was back in seconds. Putting the spoon in Mac’s hands, he told him to bite down. Mike opened the vodka and I stood back, just watching in awe. He sloshed the vodka onto the open, bleeding wound on Mac’s backside and amusingly ignored his muffled screams. Gavin said he’d take Mac to urgent care in the morning. He then “bandaged” up Mac’s rear. I’m putting quotes around that because I’m fairly certain they used paper towels and tape.
We then had a few more guests from the prior party arrive, and we all hung out in the living room for a bit. At around four in the morning, Mike’s friend Marcus* invited us to his house about four houses down.
We sat in Marcus’s room with another one of his roommates, Zane*, and we proceeded to have some really interesting discussions. Mike’s friend Finn* also showed up. We somehow ended up discussing the polarities and levels of intersectionality, racism, feminism and many more things related to this politically charged nature. There was a part where I sat back, leaning against the wall. Zane asked me what was wrong.
“I’ve never seen men have such an unprompted emotionally intelligent conversation,” I said. Mike looked at me. His eyes said “I told you.” I couldn’t help but smile.
We made it back to Mike’s house at five in the morning. I crashed on my beanbag bed in the living room and ignored my brother and his friend Ocho* playing Guitar Hero next to me. Something similar to what you’d call sleep fell over me eventually.
The next morning I woke up around eleven in the morning and texted my brother to see if he was awake. By noon, we were out the door and headed to the closest campus library. As someone who goes to an extremely small school, I was in mouth-gaping-and-drooling awe at this so-called “smaller” library (according to my brother). We did some work for a couple of hours and then left.
Later that night, we threw the party at our house. My brother slept during the preparations. I did more work. The pledges made Jungle Juice. I had George drive me to 7-11, like a real brother would and should. I woke Mike up at ten, and we went downstairs.
This party was definitely off to a slower start, and it showed. However, as much as it sucked that the girls they invited literally stayed for forty minutes (for everyone else at least, I didn’t really care), we still sang along to songs for an hour after that.
We then went to a local joint where I met up with a couple more friends from my hometown. It actually almost felt like home—especially the part where a random guy almost hit me in the head with a dart. That detail deserves inclusion.
We went back to Mike’s house within an hour, and all of my favorite brothers were in attendance for the after-party. After some time, some of us had traveled upstairs to be in a quieter space. Sitting next to Mike on the couch, I joked with his friends, and he joined in. He put his arm around my shoulder and said something I couldn’t forget under any influence:
“It means more to me, more than anything, that you’re here and you gave my friends a chance. I needed you, and I needed this. You have no idea.”
All at once the room fell silent. It looked like there were tears in everyone’s eyes, but it could have just been me. I smiled, and the chaotic talking resumed around us. I remember telling him that there’s nothing better to me than seeing that he has plenty of incredible, capable people there with him to take care of him when I can’t. And, because we’re the Brand family, we both followed that up with a stupid joke that probably only made sense to us. I guess that’s how we say “I love you.”
How does one follow a heartfelt, gushy, family moment like that? How do you top that?
I’ll tell you how. You follow it by going to sleep at four in the morning that night and being woken up by 5 missed FaceTimes and 7 missed calls from your mother at seven in the morning. You think to yourself, “but I have one more hour.” Right? Wrong. She’s coming to get you now, because she misses her kitten and wants to go home.
Mike and I traveled downstairs groggily and traipsed across the walkway to our parents standing against the car. We hugged and exchanged grunting noises. Some of them sounded like “I love you.” Mike went back into his house, and I collapsed into the backseat of my parent’s car. We went home, and I began to write this article in an attempt to tell you all a few things.
Many frats, and I mean many, are awful. They’re dehumanizing, homophobic, racist, you name it. Enough fraternities have created this type of toxic environment that there is an important ongoing stigma about how awful they are. But some frats, the newer ones, the smaller ones—they are comprised of some really good people. And, more importantly, they are doing their small part to make some wrong things in the world right. Isn’t that what the rest of us aim to do, too?
And in case you were wondering, one would say it was as close to a full send as one girl could achieve in 48 hours. Also, Mac got ten stitches on his butt.