American Fraternity Man (71 page)

“Our programs at Bowling Green will directly influence the rest of the universities in this country.” Now he sweeps his hand outward to indicate the vastness of the North American continent. “Our research, our practices, shape the way that students go about their daily lives. Their residence halls. Their clubs, their fraternities. We are with them 24/7, and we shape their behavior, their attitudes. Do you see the magnitude of it all? We will chart the course of this
entire
generation.”

“Sounds like a big deal,” I say again—

—but he’s saying “We are going to soon be living in a
compassion boom
,” and then he’s talking about privileged young people who could take high-paying jobs, but who choose—
willingly
choose—to work for non-profits, for social services, for schools. He’s reciting statistics on the number of unpaid positions that young people are assuming for a full year after graduation in order to
change the world
, and he’s clapping like he’s the reason for it. “We have a generation who has easy access to information, who knows what’s wrong with the world, who wants to
save
the world,” he says. “The graduate students you see around you? They are part of it.”

“Compassion boom.” I think of my father, casually dismissing the same term.

“Compassion boom,” and he taps the book again. I notice the title:
Fraternity Man as Community Champion
.

I say nothing. I open my mouth. I shrug.
I came to this meeting out of obligation, to finish some basic paperwork for my visit report. I’m not in the mood for anything more.

“So
,” he says, fingertips pressed together again. “You don’t look like you’re buying my bullshit.”

The world stops.

“What? Bullshit?” I start. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful.”

But I was. And he saw it.

“Let’s talk about
you
for a moment, Charles Washington,” Dr. Vernon says. He moves the book aside, shuffles through those papers on his desk again, finds something that intrigues him. “With whom have you met so far on your visit?”

“Wait.
This, like, isn’t about me.”

“
Sure it is. We’re talking. I’m getting to know you.”

“
Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ve met with the Executive Board.”

“One meeting in two days?
That’s pretty light. Is the road wearing you down?”

“
I’ve done a lot of informal stuff.”

“Tell me about your average chapter visit
, Charles Washington,” he says. “Your schedule. Your activities. What do you do out there?”

“Why does that matter? Aren’t we supposed to talk about the chapter here at Bowling Green? I’m confused.”

“I know about the chapter here,” Dr. Vernon says. “We have a graduate assistant
living
in the house. But I want to know more about
you
. After all, these students are paying for your visit, are they not? What are you offering that the university isn’t?”

“You’ve
had this job for twenty years? I thought you’d know about all of that.”

“Humor me
. Pretend I know nothing.”

“Fine
,” I say. I throw up my hands. We can both play the “boilerplate” game. “I’m an Educational Consultant. I have a specific set of responsibilities.” I tell him the mission, even though I’m sure he’s heard it before. I tell him that Nu Kappa Epsilon is building socially responsible citizens, that we offer more leadership development programming than any other young men’s organization, Boy Scouts included. I tell him that I pledge allegiance to the flag, I tell him that Our Father, who art in Heaven, I tell him that A-B-C-D-E-F-G, H-I-J-K-LMNOP, I tell him that one-on-ones, alumni, meetings with advisors, I tell him that Marathon Man and Diamond Candidate and polo shirt, I tell him that I’m not even listening to myself anymore, or maybe I just think that last comment, but who knows, because when I talk about fraternity life now, it just feels like a voice recording projecting from my mouth. In mid-sentence, I’ll start to wonder why anyone even takes this shit seriously. I mean, people write books about fraternity life? Can you imagine dedicating
years
of your life to writing a book about this shit?

And
here, now, I say something that surprises myself: “Sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing even when I am,” I say. “Sometimes I’m doing the wrong thing, but it feels like the right thing. Sometimes I get so mixed up that I don’t even care.”

“Interesting,” he says.

“Interesting?” I ask. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said any of that. It’s…that’s not something I want repeated. What did I just say?”

“What wrong things have you done?”

“I misspoke,” I say.

“Then what did you mean to say?”

Finger to my eyelid. How do I hit
backspace
on this one? “It’s not…it’s not that things were wrong.”

“No?”

“It’s just, everyone has these different definitions of what makes a thing right or wrong. That’s what I meant, I guess.”

“Please don’t feed me bullshit,” he says.

“No, no,” I say. “What I mean is…we try to make things simple by saying ‘this is right’ and ‘this is wrong,’ but it’s never that easy, you know? It’s always changing. One moment at one school, something is endearing or harmless, and then suddenly it’s dangerous and unacceptable. It hurts my head.”

He places his fist at his mouth as if to cough, but he chuckles instead.
“I like your skepticism,” he says. “I like that you’re thinking critically.”

“You
like
that I’m critical?” I ask. “I would’ve thought that this is blasphemy.”

He nods. “So much better than the consultants who just give me the company line.
I meet with far too many robots.”

“I’m not a robot.”

“Prove it. Tell me more, Mr. Washington.”

“
Tell you more?”

“Tell me what you’ve seen out there, on the road.”

“I don’t know.”

“Unless you want to leave the impression that you’re just like the rest of them?”

“I’m not,” I say, and before I know it I’m telling him everything that I’ve been thinking for the past month. I’m telling him that I thought everything would be textbook-pretty—

—but it took me too long to realize that
no matter the “mission,” everyone’s got an agenda. And too often they clash. The students have a reason for joining a fraternity: some of them probably
did
want the leadership development angle. But others? They could care less about leadership, just joined because they just wanted friends to play video games with, or—hell—maybe they did want a drinking club. Sure. We make it sound so nefarious, I tell him, but these things aren’t
all
terrible. It’s just kids, and they join for a specific reason. But then here comes the National Fraternity, and we say:
No
, there’s only one thing you can be, and that’s what
we
want fraternity to be. If you aren’t with us, then you’re a
problem chapter
. And so there’s this animosity,
us
vs.
you
, and then you throw in the alumni, and now there’s another 80 years’ worth of ideas of what
they
want the fraternity chapters to be. Sometimes it aligns with the students, sometimes it aligns with the National Fraternity. Sometimes neither. “And then, shit,” I say, “then there’s
you
.” I hold up my palms: we had to get here sooner or later. Every Greek Advisor on every campus wants something different, too, I’m telling him. Maybe you’re in it for yourself, your research. Maybe you only want to advance to some other campus position. I close my eyes, shake my head, try to visualize all of these groups competing over the same institution, an army of men in polos and Greek letters all reaching and grabbing and reaching and grabbing. “I always thought my parents’ marriage was like a tug-of-war,” I say. “Always going back and forth whenever one of them won some little domestic battle. But this? The fraternity world is like a four-way marriage tug-of-war, for God’s sake, and there’s no chance for divorce.”

He
leans forward, tie piling like folded deli meat atop the manila folder, and makes a faux shock face. “You think Greek Advisors are part of the problem?”

“
Greek Advisors.” I shake my head. “At one campus, I met a fraternity—they’d gotten in trouble because
two members
were underage drinking at a social event—and this entire fraternity chapter, sixty guys, had to take an online alcohol education program. That was the punishment that the Greek Advisor recommended. What the hell is that all about? What does that do?”

“Well,” he says and looks about to deliver some data on—

“Another campus,” I say, and I’m not going to let him say a damned word. Suddenly he has become Dr. Jacobs at Illinois, George Samuels at Pittsburgh, Donnie Ackman at New Mexico State; he has become every Greek Advisor I’ve ever met, a hundred books on his wall, a dozen binders filled with reports and surveys and typed-out programs, a gallon of ink spilled on signatures and tear-away presentation-board sheets, a thousand hours of workshops and motivational speakers…but not a single hour on a fraternity house couch. “I saw a group put on probation for conducting an
unregistered
community service event. Listen: they were holding this book drive for a local high school, but they hadn’t filled out paperwork with the Greek Life office, and so they all—again, we’re talking about sixty or seventy guys—they were
all
punished by the Student Conduct Board and had to write these stupid apology letters and…” I shake my head. “There are other examples. Dozens. Campus administrators who think everything is solved”—I make like I’m clapping the dust off my hands—“because we filed paperwork, or because we had everyone go to see an anti-hazing speaker one afternoon. They’re just trying to create the illusion that they’ve done something.”

Dr. Vernon’s cuff links sparkle again as he motions toward
me. “Useful commentary,” he says, and I thought he’d be pissed, seething that I’d just attempted to crash the scaffolds of his life’s calling…“So how are
you
different?”

“How am
I
different?”

“How are you different?”

“I’m right there in the house,” I say. “I sit with them. I talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About
everything
!” I say, and suddenly I realize my voice has become loud and uncontrolled.
I don’t know
what
we talk about
, I tell him. House occupancy? Dues payments? Jay-Z? LeBron James? Tina Fey? Thirteen or fourteen waking hours, breakfast-lunch-dinner, trips to Subway or Quiznos, movies till midnight, a 12-pack. Who knows what we talk about in all that time? But
that’s
real work, I tell him, growing angrier with each new word. That isn’t just a formal one-on-one meeting in an office, Greek Advisor with Student Leader. That isn’t just typing on a computer. You’ve got to care about these kids as something more than spreadsheet cells, I say.

Dr. Vernon hasn’t blinked in the last minute, doesn’t break his stare as he listens to me
. But eventually he leans forward in his seat, calm as ever, body casting shadow over his desk, and says: “So. Are you trying to convince
me
that you’ve done good work, or are you trying to convince
yourself
?”

“
I don’t know what you mean.”

Vernon exhales. “
You still can’t admit it. You’re no different than the ones you’re criticizing.”

And I wipe my forehead. “
I’m
no different?” I ask. “I see what you’re doing here. You just want to talk about
me
because
you’re
the one who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. You’re fucking clueless! All of your pointless programs? Millennial Generation research? You’re just another climber, using these fucking students for your own gains.
I’m
no different?”