Rushing to conclusions

We’re a strange college community in a lot of ways. We only attend athletic events if properly incentivized with free beers and T-shirts. We hardly ever come together as a student body, barring a visit from a major dignitary or Bacchanal indie band. And the biggest display of school spirit in recent memory was the result of a jump in US News and World Report rankings.

The things that tie us to one another—Homer and Virgil, all-nighters in Butler, the promises of New York City—aren’t just common interests. We like to think that they define us, just as the things we reject—a champion football team, pep rallies, a campus-centric social scene—further refine us.

That’s precisely why an issue as simple as the recognition of Barnard sororities can become one of the most divisive debates on campus. There is a reason we’re not reading headlines about recognizing a cappella groups and literary magazines. Sororities undeniably have reputations that precede them, and it is important to realize how that influences our own judgments of what is or is not consistent with our values.

The Sorority Girl is a Halloween costume more than a living identity, thanks to a culture that sexualizes and demeans female college students in the name of entertainment. Maybe she’s superficial and ditzy, like the sorority girls in “Legally Blonde,” attending classes with the sole intention of finding a future husband. Or maybe she doesn’t attend classes at all, but is in a perpetual state of partying, like the sorority girls in the “National Lampoon” movies. After all, to the pornography industry, sororities are really just elaborate sex organizations populated by lascivious girls in plaid skirts and knee socks.

The stereotype is so easy to conjure because it varies so little—diversity of race is rare when it comes to depictions of sorority girls, as is diversity of socioeconomic status or sexual orientation—unless it’s for the benefit of a third party, naturally. And with admission criteria as indefinite and arbitrary as in the movies, it’s easy to see how sororities can be self-sustaining centers of exclusivity and prejudice.

Privilege, homogeneity, recklessness, ignorance—if these are the values sororities indeed embody, as pop culture would have us believe, then our conclusions could be clear. Of course we’d reject the recognition and funding of sororities—anything at all, really, that would grant them any legitimacy. Whether the decision directly impacted us would be immaterial, because at stake would be our own identities, our own communities.

But maybe, instead of coming to a decision about sorority recognition based solely on a stereotype, we should focus on what sororities are at their best. Sororities were formed in the 19th century as a safe space for women in newly co-educational and often hostile universities. Unfortunately, the hostile educational environment women faced at that time persists to some degree even today—the vitriolic anonymous Bwog comments directed toward Barnard women are the most egregious examples, but they’re by no means the only ones. And if we accept that sororities aren’t always thinly veiled brothels or discriminatory clubs for the elite, but can be genuine safe spaces for an alienated segment of the Columbia community, their aims no longer seem diametrically opposed to Columbia’s own.

Only 1,000 students partake in Greek life at Columbia, and out of those 1,000, only 170 are in sororities. It’s safe to say that a little Italian restaurant named El Campo holds more of a monopoly on Columbia’s social scene than fraternities or sororities do, and students don’t live in imposing mansions but narrow brownstones—many opting instead to enter general housing with their non-Greek classmates. It’s not often that you see students wearing sweatshirts emblazoned with Greek letters, or raising awareness for their sorority’s cause on College Walk, or holding official school-wide events open to the public. Greek life simply isn’t as big a presence on Columbia’s campus as it is on others. But without faces to match to the organizations, the tendency to make generalizations and reductions becomes that much more tempting. When we think we haven’t met any members of Greek organizations and don’t find ourselves engaged with their causes and events, it’s far easier to let cultural caricatures supplant empirical experiences, and far easier to make issues like Barnard sorority recognition into an issue of “us” versus “them.”

And that’s a disservice in more ways than one, because applying generalizations to Columbia sororities erases their ability to define themselves and their own values. Here’s a great opportunity, under this harsh spotlight, for sororities to showcase what the movies don’t—camaraderie, philanthropic work, and a fair and equitable selection process. It might shatter every pre-conceived notion of what a sorority is—but then, we’re a strange college community.

Aarti Iyer is a Columbia College senior majoring in creative writing. She is the editor-in-chief of The Fed. Culture Vulture runs alternate Tuesdays.