University of Louisville - Thoroughbred Yearbook (Louisville, KY)

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Hey little leaf lyin’ on the ground, Now you’re turnin’ slightly brown. Why don’t you hop back up on the tree, Turn the color green that you ought to be. The Holy Modal Rounders WATERLOG a curiosity by Gwen McVickar Ridge 30

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There were tempting tales of fraternity fun and frolic—wild drunks, those famous “purple passions” and threats of security- police raids. As we sisters sat on the living- room carpet of our old, Old Louisville house, epic adventures of happy-go-lucky coeds and beefy, brawny heroes unravelled before me. “Oh, gawd, they threw him in the fountain when they found out we got lavaliered . .. .” or, “I could have died when his bro- thers chose me as their SWEET- HEART!” Or maybe, “Charlie and | stayed up all night working on the float. We just better win or I'll commit suicide.” Suicide? Oh, | considered it, but thought twice about that ad- venture. A little too epic for my tastes. Instead | merely faded into the background. | was confused. My first semester, as a pledge, | too had dates with the famed frater- nity idols. Unfortunately, beneath their well-shined weejuns, | could always detect a pair of cleverly-disguised clay feet. Where were the tom-terrifics that my young mind yearned for? Hiding out in the SUB with the Homecoming Queen? Playing bridge with their “little bro- thers?” Passing footballs on the library lawn? In Vietnam, per- haps??? Giving up quickly in that pur- suit, | settled down to a drab existence of dating independents. Independents indepen- dence—either word was enough to cause a minor riot in the house. | kept my secret to myself; ‘Don’t Rock the Boat” was my motto. It was not an entirely unfound- ed motto. | had my reasons— quixotic but nevertheless sin- cere-for sticking with it. | be- lieved in the ideal of pure friend- ship. | had even experienced it once or twice before. A rap- port; a meeting-of-minds; a simple, unforced relationship between two consenting spirits. | wanted it again, and sought it in the best-publicized, most- accessible manner. A sorority. Admittedly, at times the spark of camaraderie was there. They sought it too. Somehow the struc- ture of the system—the ‘what's your major. . .where do you live. ..do you want to be a cheer- leader’ approach to reaching people—just wasn’t working out. They soon sensed that | wasn’t with them all the way. When we s ang “our” songs together, it sounded off-key to me. Not that they weren't a fine chorus. The perennial threat of Fryberger Sing kept them in excellent voice year round. It wasn’t the vocal quality; it was the message. The message of group-greatness, team-spirit, go- go-go-ism. It didn’t jive with the rest of the game. While they chanted praises to the almighty founders, | struggled against a steady stream-of-con- sciousness which contradicted the lyrics of their loving ballads. Through my mind, the jumbled visions went something like this: Two lonesome “sisters” brood- ing alone in the dining room. Chosen by the group because their mothers were alumnae or their grades were too good to pass by, they were also outcasts in their own dues-financed house -One loud, bossy “sister” bitching at everyone else to “do this, do that”... . Long, morbid afternoons, between classes, run- ning another “sister” into the ground because she happened to not be present when there was nothing else to talk about... . Evenings at the Fairgrounds, the “sisters” grudgingly forging to- gether a Homecoming float. Everyone wishing silently that they were somewhere else, but ashamed to admit that this task wasn’t the be-all-and-end-all of their college careers. With these images ever close at mind, it was difficult for me to digest the sugary cliches that were supposed to wash away the sour taste, like a healthy swoosh of Listerine the morning after. The bromides gushed forth most vigorously during rush, the annual rat race that no one won. Rush was the season when | lost my nerve. It arrived each year at the end of summer. Following three months of freedom and, yes, independence, | just couldn’t handle what took place during that endless series of seven days. Rush was a combination of pressure politics and good, old- fashioned hypocrisy. For the bet- ter part of the week, | would con- ceal myself behind a barricade of dirty cups and saucers. To my good fortune, kitchen patrol saved me from the battlefield. Despite rush and all the other grotesqueries, nostalgia—the my- opic muse of memories—still nags me at times. With illusionary prowess, she creates idyllic scenes of carefree young girls enjoying good times together. | would like to believe that; but can’t. In positive terms, the most | can say about my interlude with sorority life is that it was a learning experience—an ordeal by fraternal fire. | survived the ordeal. But the burns sting long after the fire dies out. 29

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Her camera recorded this strange angle. When her pictures were returned three days later she gazed at the giant buttercups set against a background of tiny maple trees. Of course the pictures weren't fine and sharp; the film was of poor quality—very cheap film from Belgium. But the pictures are still here in this scrapbook. It was easy to expand this idea from then on, For some children it comes easily, for the rest it comes with a little effort, but it does come after all. il | ps the horse AN ) em As ¥. es su i garden sticks for afence But it does no good to dwell on all this, she found. Being sensitive is probab- ly just a very subtle symptom of having been warped by society. Which doesn’t mean it’s evil necessarily. But taken to an extreme it can be harmful to the sensitive person in his relations with other people. Self-consciousness is expanded to such an extent that every word, every action is analyzed and ster- ilized until the individual risks becoming a vegetable for fear of saying or doing something that would insult or hurt another. In this way he becomes in- sensitive, ruins himself and feels guilty about it. 31