My roommate practically shuddered. "There are deltas in the table design, and the carpet pattern has mini-deltas, too!" she said. The triangles, faintly marked in the carpets and subtly carved in the side panels of the dining room tables, really weren't ostentatious. But at Stanford they couldn't have been more noticeable. Tri Delta -- one of only two sororities allowed back in campus housing last fall after an absence of more than 50 years -- feared being "too Greek." Stereotypical sorority decor might make us look like stereotypically ditzy sorority girls. Nobody wanted that.
But the dirty delta secret soon got out; and for the first month of school, I spent a lot of time trying to convince non-sorority friends that those deltas were just triangles. Eventually I tired of explaining our furnishings; I began to tell people I lived in Cowell Cluster.
I can understand the typecasting. Growing up in the South, I saw plenty of sorority women who were obsessed with their body image but oblivious to their alcohol tolerance. I was encouraged when I read in orientation materials that sorority members are in the minority at Stanford (we account for 17 percent of undergraduate women).
My views began to change when I got here, though. I was surprised to find that my ultra-cool resident assistant Courtney was a Theta, my peer health educator Melora a Pi Phi. Greek letters or not, Stanford women are smart, confident and mature. Getting to know these individuals made me think sororities weren't so bad after all. Since I wanted to meet new people, I decided to endure the rush process.
Compared to rush weeks at schools with more active Greek programs, Stanford's process is not too stressful. It's shorter and, with less participation, less competitive. Still, it's four days of cocktail-party chitchat concluding with -- for the chosen ones -- an invitation to be a "sister." In fact, the divisive nature of rush in the 1940s was what led Stanford's trustees to ban sororities from campus in 1944. At the time, the announcement met with widespread approval. Nearly three-quarters of Stanford women back then rushed. The nine housed sororities, all on the Row, rejected many applicants, and the selection process became even more competitive when more women came to Stanford during World War II. It was not unusual for depressed rejects to transfer to another school.
Times changed, and sororities were again allowed to organize on campus in 1977. Two years ago, a University task force, hearing students' demands for equity in Greek housing, made sororities and unhoused fraternities eligible for campus accommodations. We Tri Delts were among the lucky ones to get a house. At the same time, the rules changed. Last year, all Greek organizations became subject to more stringent housing criteria: they must have enough members to fill all house spots, whereas previously they needed to fill only 90 percent of their rooms.
Of course, there are some drawbacks to living in what my friend Dave calls "the estrogen shack." I miss eating regularly with my male friends. The Super Bowl party we had just wasn't the same. I can't knock on my neighbor's door to get the "male perspective." And the residential education program, which exposed me to the diverse populations in my freshman dorm, has only limited influence here. We're a self-selected group. The women must be assertive, social and poised to survive rush.
Still, we are hardly clones: a writing tutor, a Dollie, peer counselors, musicians, a Daily editor (me), a Gaieties actress and varsity athletes in diving, cross-country, tennis and golf, to name a few. We'd be faking if we claimed all of us are best friends. Yet we have a great time together. One evening we turned the house into a miniature golf course. Last fall we organized a charity auction to benefit the Lucile Packard Children's Hospital. Occasionally we've even baked cookies. Occasionally. And we're not isolated. Dave, for all his teasing, regularly comes over for dinner -- and we don't complain too loudly when toilet seats are left up.
Living in the house has made me a part of my sorority in a way that I wasn't before. Typically, Greek events draw on rush skills: the ideal member is supposed to float from conversation to conversation. The result is that no one really gets to know anyone else. But those of us living in the Tri Delt house connect like, well, sisters.
We were dismayed last year when the University assigned us a house with a 55-person occupancy. We preferred half that: we knew that if we couldn't fill the house, we'd lose it. Now, however, the Tri Delt house is too small to take everyone who wants to live here. Since I'm neither an officer nor a member of the incoming pledge class, I won't be able to stay in the house next year. And I'll miss it.
Even those triangles.
Jennie Berry, '01, is a public policy and economics major from Bowling Green, Ky.
