Rush Week

In August 1965 the protagonist of this poignant morality tale arrived on the campus of Washington and Lee University with high hopes, buoyant optimism, and undaunted resolve, despite having been rejected by four other notable institutions -- Princeton, Yale, Amherst, and Williams -- which, had he been more attuned to mystical foreshadowing, should have alerted him as to what was shortly to transpire.

Indeed had it not been for the legacy of his father, a 1941 graduate, he might have received a similar pink slip from Washington and Lee, although he doubts it, since back then even its stellar reputation placed it in a second tier of schools just below those in the Ivy League.

To add insult to injury, a close friend, in his humble opinion no more qualified than he, was accepted at Williams.

It certainly wasn't his grades that betrayed him. For eleven years -- not the mandated twelve, his precocity having enabled him to leapfrog the fifth -- he logged report cards rarely blemished with even a "B," except in the one subject in which intelligence accounted for naught: Phys Ed.

Blessed with a beautiful mind, enamored of the written word, motivated by some compulsive gene to excel in all matters academic, he was a model student, promptly completing all homework assignments, producing exhaustively researched and lengthy term papers, and efficiently regurgitating textbook material and classroom lectures on demand -- en route to graduating fifth in a class of four hundred at E. C. Glass High School and posting a 1300 score on his College Boards.

Apparently brainpower wasn't enough. Although his mother maintains to this day that it was a Jewish quota system that denied him the Ivy League, an equally plausible explanation is that, with thousands of scholarly applicants storming their gates, maybe he just wasn't the well-rounded type of student these schools had the luxury of selecting.

Athletic competence was, and always would be, a challenge and an embarrassment to him, as evidenced early in elementary school by his relegation to the bottom of the order in the simple exercise of kickball. Not only did he lack the speed, strength, and coordination to perform respectably at the conventional sports of that era -- football, baseball, and basketball -- he could never summon the competitive spirit or the consistent determination which were prerequisites for success on the field or court and which could often compensate for one's physical shortcomings.

Then, as now I assume, athletics were a socialization mechanism for adolescent males -- engendering camaraderie, promoting teamwork, building self-esteem, ensuring one's acceptance into at least one admired elite, and, an ancillary benefit, garnering the attention of a bevy of rapidly maturing females.

But I'm not sure even a letter sweater would have helped the introverted, cerebral, distracted youth soaring through high school on the wings of his intellect yet shackled by the manacles of social insecurity. Aside from lackluster sightings on the Debate Team, the Latin Club, and the Literary Magazine (proof of the latter two having recently been emailed to him from a pair of nostalgic classmates), he wasn't much of a joiner, nor a thespian (mustering enough courage to try out for the Senior Play, he was the only one of eleven males not to get a part), nor a musician (unable to carry a tune, he was admonished by his seventh grade teacher not to sing so loudly). When school was out, he was content to retreat to the solitude of his room for reading and study.

Oh, he had a coterie of close friends -- all males, although he pined for wet kisses and the tender touch of a soft hand -- with whom he spent his weekends -- mastering bridge or board games, watching westerns and an occasional ball game, playing ping-pong, chugging a few illicit beers. As for parties, dates, dances -- even the High School Prom -- he doesn't remember too much of them, always too shy to ask out one of the handful of girls who deigned to cast a friendly glance or encouraging word his way.

He heard whispers of one beauty he fancied himself madly in love with -- a cheerleader, no less -- going steady with a stalwart of the football team, two classes above her, inciting him to silent jealousy, of passionate encounters at drive-in movies and remote parking places, of wild parties to which everyone except him and his friends had been invited. But his feeble attempts to ingratiate himself with those whom he identified as icons of popularity were met with cool indifference, and left him circling the perimeter of an invisible fence, banished to the fringes of inclusiveness.

His matriculation at Washington and Lee presented him the unique opportunity to reinvent himself. Here was a clean slate, a fresh environment, a host of new, well-scrubbed faces, including his own, all his soiled baggage left behind. And he knew exactly what he wanted.

In 1965, the social life at Washington and Lee revolved around the fraternity system. Ninety per cent of the student body were Greeks, and those who weren't -- either by choice or by lack of invitation -- were condemned to social purgatory and saddled with the ignominious label "nufus" -- non-fraternity undesirables.

There was still one active all-Jewish fraternity, Zeta Beta Tau, and, although a few others were beginning to open their doors to Jewish students, it was usually their first choice and home to most of the approximately eighty Jews on campus. ZBT had a reputation for academic superiority, student leadership (The president of the student body that year was a ZBT.), intramural excellence, pretty girls, and frenzied weekends.

Much further down the social pecking order was Phi Epsilon Pi, a formerly all-Jewish fraternity, known as Phi Ep back in the days when our eager freshman's father had been a proud member, but now bearing the rather chick-like sobriquet "the Peep House," a disparaging description of its members, who, having been rejected by most, if not all, of the other sixteen Greek houses -- because of their homely appearance, inelegant attire, boorish conversation, and awkward mannerisms -- were grateful to find themselves welcome among a cadre of similar outcasts.

This is an exaggeration, but it makes the point. There were some "Peeps" no doubt who chose to affiliate because they liked the fellows they met.

Just a few years prior to 1965, as more and more Jewish students pledged ZBT, Phi Epsilon Pi -- which, ironically, occupied one of the newest houses in town (none were actually located on campus) -- had been on the verge of extinction. It had been resurrected by the heroic efforts of half a dozen brothers, who had made the courageous decision (at that time) to open it to non-Jewish students, and then to offer membership to just about any freshman who managed to find his way to the front door during Rush Week.

Back in 1965 Washington and Lee conducted a peculiar (at least by contemporary mores) orientation program: Freshman Camp. Whether this four-day festival was held on campus or at a scenic remote site like Natural Bridge is irrelevant. All our protagonist remembers is that, having unearthed the college's social hierarchy, he is anxious to join ZBT; he assumes most of his Jewish compatriots harbor the same objective; and that it behooves him to identify and befriend as many of them as possible. Which he does, making the Camp sojourn worthwhile. After all, they are his presumptive fraternity brothers, with whom he will live, study, and play for the next four years.

Not only that, as fate would have it, once he and his classmates take up permanent residence in the historic Freshman Dorm, the three-story, u-shaped, gray stone edifice surrounding the Quad gathering place, he immediately falls under the spell of a chubby, red-haired, freckle-faced preppie, S. A., who regularly holds court in his smoke-filled room just down the hall, regaling him and other acolytes with an endless repertoire of bawdy jokes, grandiose adventures, female conquests, and athletic exploits, and captivating him with his effusive charm, brash self-confidence, and elusive sophistication.

And of course S. A.'s Jewish and destined to pledge ZBT. But he's not sure that his gawky classmate will survive the fraternity screening process, and undertakes a personal mission to help him become more "cool."

He doesn't have much time; the school year is barely under way when the curious phenomenon known as Rush Week descends upon the campus.

One can hardly conceive of a system more irrational, yet at the same time one more perversely effective. Here are four hundred young men, from all parts of the country -- although most were from the South -- from various socioeconomic backgrounds -- although most were financially comfortable, some even wealthy -- and with diverse educational experiences -- although all had to have met high academic standards -- thrown together in a novel environment and trying to acclimate themselves to the rigors of a college schedule, who, within days, must make a momentous decision as to who will be their closest companions for the next four years -- or have it made for them by fifty upperclassmen whose only qualification is their own veteran status.

On the other hand, Rush Week is certainly an appropriate appellation. During the course of six frantic days, through word of mouth or the recommendation of his new friends or acquaintances, one chooses from a list of fifteen or sixteen indistinguishable Greek-lettered institutions eight or ten to visit, his dance card of potential suitors, so to speak.

Have the current members of these houses researched the resumes of their prospective brothers in order to determine whom they will court the most vigorously and send the flashiest car to pick up? Who knows? At any rate, a "hard rush" -- or sales job -- is foisted upon the young men who have been anointed "studs" by some fraternal deity. And, no doubt, with all the drinking, glad-handing, backslapping, and false jocularity -- not unlike a heated political campaign -- the "rush" of a psychological high is as intense as the one concurrently induced by alcohol (or chemicals).

Those possessing the undeniable handsomeness which the coeds of neighboring colleges will swoon over, or the burnished athletic credentials of high school stardom, or the practiced savoir faire of a S. A. will find their dance cards overflowing and their decisions increasingly difficult. As the week winds down, they are still evaluating each suitor's pros and cons, holding closed door sessions with others in the same luxurious predicament, or lingering in the Quad waiting for yet another "Rush" date."

When all is said and done, they sort out as neatly as a stacked deck of cards divided into Aces, Kings, Queens, Jacks, and on down to the lowly deuces.

No such quandary confronts our earnest protagonist. His choice is clear -- ZBT, where his long-repressed social facility will germinate and his college career flourish among friends and mentors. He even has an "in." A prominent member of ZBT's sophomore class is the nephew of a friend of his father, an old Phi Ep fraternity brother, ironically enough. Driving a Corvette, this fellow picks him up at the Dorm for his first date.

After forty-five years he remembers what he was wearing that night when he "rushed" ZBT, the traditional garb of a Washington and Lee gentleman: yellow shirt, gray slacks, blue blazer, and hideous paisley tie.

He also remembers what he drank: too much beer. But, isn't that what one was supposed to do at these fraternity parties? And he's quite confident about the outcome of the whole affair, seeing it really as a fait accompli; after all, he's made friends with the other Jewish students, he has that inside connection, and he's an excellent student, which will help ZBT in its quest to maintain the highest fraternity grade average on campus. He believes a little alcohol, just a little, will fortify him, make the conversation flow, enhance his sociability.

When it's all over, it's a blur, no clearer then than it is now. Whisked to the fraternity house, our ingenue is led to a large, brightly-lit room, usually the basement, crammed with blue blazers, jacketless ties, rolled-up shirt sleeves, a uniformity interrupted by an occasional sweater-skirted female (no slacks or jeans back then). While the beer flows freely and the room buzzes with the noise of mindless chatter, he is welcomed with enthusiasm, both feigned and genuine, depending on the place, and passed like a dollar bill from one brother to another so he can be assessed and evaluated -- his appearance, his demeanor, his poise, his fluency, his charm -- while out of the corner of his eye he sees important fellows retreating to back rooms for secret consultations.

He's having a grand time. Everyone at the ZBT House is warm, friendly, glad to see him, eager that he meet as many brothers as possible. He likes them; he has a lot in common with them; he will be a perfect fit here. Exhibiting an uncharacteristic audacity, he spots the President of the Student Body, also a varsity basketball player, across the crowded room, and makes his way there to introduce himself. Whether appropriate or not, it seems to work. He believes he has made a good impression.

As for the other fraternities he visits -- if one can call it that, as he is shunted through revolving doors of confusing sights, cacophonous sounds, and transparent posturings -- their gatekeepers determine rather quickly, after a smile and a handshake, that, like those Ivy League schools, he's just not their type. Only two others demonstrate serious interest: his legacy, Phi Epsilon Pi, and another, to remain unnamed, which also is content to stock itself with pledges who have been turned away by the more prestigious houses.

He's not worried. He's been invited back for another "rush date" at ZBT two nights later. He compares notes with his Jewish friends; a few have already been extended membership "bids."

That second date is staked out in his memory like a recurring nightmare. This time, he is consigned to the care of an uncouth, bespectacled, bookish fellow (resembling himself, perhaps), not your typical ZBT, obviously, who has been charged with the task of keeping him occupied, of running interference between him and the other brothers, who are busy "rushing" all his friends, even taking them into those back rooms, where they are offering them bids to join. But he, alas, like a dog on a leash, is not permitted to stray far from his master.

One is either asked back to a fraternity, or not, which means he has been "blackballed" -- by one, two, three, or however few members are permitted by its by-laws to determine whether he is suited to be one of them. And thus the sledgehammer drops on our slightly befuddled but still expectant "rush" prospect when, returned to the Dorm by his annoying escort, he is summarily dismissed with the chilling valediction, "We'll see you around" -- but not, obviously, at the ZBT house.

Is this how Rush Week ends, with a whimper, a consummation heretofore inconceivable, now so devastating, so heartbreaking, so desensitizing? All his high hopes for four years of joyous camaraderie, gorgeous women, social preeminence, crushed like empty beer cans; all his budding friendships tossed aside like wilted flowers.

Where did he go wrong, he asks himself, and his sympathetic confidante, S. A., already a gleeful ZBT pledge -- a question for which there is no answer, other than the painful truth: "Haven't you figured it out yet? You're just not 'cool' enough to be a ZBT?" If only he could turn the clock back a few days, and be given a second chance to make a better first impression.

What little self-confidence he had is decimated. Unable to suppress the tears, he calls his father, the most socially adept person he knows; though supportive, he's powerless, beyond making a futile plea to his Phi Ep fraternity brother. He knows his son well; maybe he's not all that surprised.

"It's not the end of the world," he says. But it is, really.

Social elitism is a fact of life, although its causal factors, manifestations, and impact on an individual evolve as one passes through stages in his life. Young people can be mercilessly cliquish, basing their acceptance of peers on gross superficiality -- appearance, athletic proficiency, prowess with the opposite sex. Not only do adults become more tolerant of personality differences in general and idiosyncrasies in particular; one's success in business and professional life has a natural leveling effect, earning him the respect, even the admiration, of those who formerly would have regarded him of lesser status. Of course, people still choose their friends on commonalities of interest and lifestyle.

For our ostracized Washington and Lee freshman, that mature paradigm lies in a distant future. For the moment, he is so emotionally distraught that he cannot envision a comfortable four-year tenure and contemplates a transfer -- not an immediate option, unless he tucks his tail between his legs and flees home, but one which will require him to struggle through at least the next nine months.

Some of his ZBT friends hold out a carrot; they will try to find out who "blackballed" and why and lobby to secure a bid for him before the year is out -- a long shot at best.

One ironic moral to this pathetic allegory is immediately evident; the other emerges slowly over time.

First, wasn't our naive protagonist guilty of the same prejudices that shattered his dreams? If he aspired to ZBT as the pinnacle of social approbation, wasn't he, in effect, scorning those of his peers who, for whatever reason, could not meet its standards? And now, having been rebuffed and desperate for some measure of normalcy, he is compelled to swallow his pride and join those whom he had a week ago patronized -- Phi Epsilon Pi, the "Peep House," where he is gradually enlightened.

A number of his Phi Epsilon Pi fraternity brothers, it turns out, are not there by default. No, they have chosen to pledge there, spurning other offers, because during Rush Week they met upperclassmen and fellow freshmen for whom they felt an affinity, with whom they believed they could forge enduring bonds. While by no means as selective as the other houses, that year, 1965, Phi Epsilon Pi inducts one of the Greek Council's largest pledge classes.

And from that group, with many of whom he lives, studies, parties, laughs, and cries for four years, come the closest friendships he will form in his sixty-two years, making his college career -- despite, true to form, his spending many long hours in the Library, his head buried in the stacks -- one of the happiest periods of his life.

Five in particular stand out:

R. M., the Cat, tall, slender, black-haired, with the sly grin and sleek, silent grace of his feline namesake and the silver Avanti he loved to accelerate through the streets of Lexington, whose subtle wit never failed him as he churned out one stinging nickname after another, found humor in every aspect of the college routine, and charmed the ladies with effortless banter;

T. N., the Incredible Hulk, whose speed afoot, innate athleticism, and keyboard dexterity (he could pound out any tune by ear on the house piano) belied his solid girth; whose jovial smile and twinkling eyes occasionally succumbed to flashes of temper; and who reveled in the Tampa cigars his father manufactured and the antique cars he collected, although his own GTO was of the most recent vintage;

W. F., Troy, so named for his striking resemblance to the blue-eyed, blond-haired beach idol, Troy Donahue, more an aficionado of beer brands, willowy brunettes, soul music, and loud motorcycles than college textbooks, yet who somehow managed to muddle through on the strength of sociology and history courses;

A. L., Aloo, big, gullible, blundering, cursed with a too-easily-mocked nasal New Jersey accent, the butt of too many cruel pranks because, on scholarship, he studied feverishly to maintain his grades, earn his business degree, and validate the faith of his adored, and adoring, mother;

And, finally, B. F., the Bee, a nickname he despised, because of the raspy buzz and resounding swat his approach habitually elicited, but one which was somehow reflective of his curly hair, which his finger was always twirling, his slightly-cocked head, his wandering eye, and his peculiar gait, a fellow English major and post-graduate European traveling companion, too much of a good thing, apparently, since he never surfaced again.

Were any of them blackballed? Who knows? But if they were, it was a blessing.