In the house I settled on, the hazing was mental from the jump. It was nothing short of a drunk’s providence that landed me at 3 Frat Row. During orientation, I asked which houses hazed the worst and drank the hardest. Fraternity culture gave me a place where I could indulge the way I wanted, without loved ones or teachers or longtime friends to slow me down. Never mind that I was the first in my family to go to a proper university. I was a blackout drunk, and I resolved long before setting foot on campus to surround myself with other blackouts, even if they were all white. White kids trying to be black don’t count, of course. In the fall of 2003, I pledged a fraternity, the only chocolate member in the whole house. I write this in the hopes of reaching that lost black body floating adrift in the chaos of racial identity - just like I did for much of my life. Instead, my mind went to that kid who still longed to be the unwanted “nigger” in a fraternity where he’d be like Baldwin’s “fly in the buttermilk.” That black boy or girl who has no idea who the hell s/he is, who thinks that finding a home in places like the SAE house might offer some desperately needed sense of belonging. I never believed the lie of a post-racial America, so new heights of white shittiness don’t surprise me. The OU frat video released earlier this week shocked the nation. “There will never be a nigger in SAE!” chanted a bunch of Biebers from the dark side.
