American Fraternity Man (72 page)

Ordinarily, this is only what I would be
thinking
. Today, this is what I just
said
.

Charles is…stepping over the line.

“Ahh, ahh!” he says as though I’ve hit upon some important point. He claps, cufflinks briefly clinking against one another like toasting champagne glasses. “Now you’re talking!”

“I called you clueless, and
now
I’m talking?”

“You called me ‘fucking clueless,’ actually,” he says. “But
you bring up a good point. How do I know that these programs are effective?”

“Exactly. What’s the point of any of it?”

“Millennials crave programming, Mr. Washington.
I told you. All their lives—youth soccer, Key Club—each hour designated to a different planned activity, a different club or organization or sport. Never a wasted moment. That’s what we’re trying to replicate.”

“For God’s sake.” I smooth my pants. “Listen, I’ve
seen
them during the programs.”

“
Ahhh. So tell me: what have you seen?”

“
An average alcohol education workshop?” I say and laugh. “Half the room looks at me like I’m a prison guard, and the other half won’t make eye contact, they’re so angry that they have to sit through it. There’s a pocket of students who are hung-over, but the majority of them can’t wait to go out and get their night started. They have these, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ looks on their faces. It’s the same with the Chapter Scholarship Workshop I’ve presented, the same thing with the mandatory Executive Board meetings. Programs. Please.”

“
Oh?”

“And this isn’t a judgment, not against the students,” I say. “I’m asking for their free time, and then I’m telling them how to live their lives. If they resent me, that’s their right. But that’s what your fucking programs are good for,” I say. “That’s how your Hero Generation responds to programming.”

“My programs?” he asks. “Well. Do you think you’ve uncovered a flaw in programs in general, or the specific programs that
you
are facilitating?”

“Does it matter?”

“You’ve been honest so far, Charles. Critical. Don’t shut down now.”

“I’m not. I don’t think it matters.”

“Interesting,” he says and nods. “Because I’m afraid you misunderstood me earlier when I said that
you
were no different. I didn’t mean
you
, specifically, though you seemed to take offense. I meant the
national fraternities
. Answer honestly: aren’t paperwork and programs and workshops
your
bread and butter, too?”

And I know now that he
just set me up, that he was waiting for this moment to spike the ball in my face. “Listen,” I say. “I’m paid by Nu Kappa Epsilon, and I don’t think I need to say anything about our institutional failings.”

“Just tell me this. One thing, since you had so much to say about
our
programs. What is the goal of
your
national fraternity’s programs?”

“Leadership development,” I say. “You know that.”

“You conduct Alcohol Responsibility Workshops because you want to build leaders?”

“That’s part of it. There are two types of fraternities—”

“Let me guess. Those who get it, and those who don’t?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s the drinking clubs, the frat stars, that fuck everything up for the good guys?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds to me,” he says, “as if you’re being reductive about your membership. Talking like a robot, Mr. Washington.”

“It’s just an expression.” I wave my hand around
as if expressions float in the air and land in your mouth unexpectedly, as if none of us have any control over our clichés.

He nods. “Let me just make sure
that I’m understanding your argument. You think that
our
programs at Bowling Green are unnecessary. But you honestly think that a generic workshop commissioned by a national fraternity, then delivered to students on a Friday afternoon by a 22-year-old traveling consultant, will change a drinking club into a group of socially responsible citizens?”

“No. I told you: it won’t happen. What do you want me to say?”

“Good. So what is the purpose of the workshops, then, Charles? Answer that question. If they do not impact the students, what is their purpose?”

“You tell me.”

“The national fraternities have a reason for what they’re doing. It wasn’t always like this, I can assure you. What is the purpose behind the workshops? Think, Charles.”

“You’re not my fucking professor, all right? You’re not Socrates. Stop.”

“Again, let’s be clear, Charles. All of this traveling? A full year, and God only knows what sort of pressure you’ve placed on yourself to achieve measurable results? All of the family pressure, too? Parents who think you’re wasting your livelihood? Fiancé, or girlfriend, or even just best friends back in—where was it? Florida?—friends in Florida with whom you’ve fallen out of contact? And now you’re a year behind your peers in the job market? And you’re certainly not making any money in this labor of love you’ve undertaken.”

“And my car is fucked up.”

“And your car is fucked up. Anything else I’m missing?”

“Probably. Debt.”

“Debt. You’re not the first, Charles Washington. How many other young leaders have been drawn to the beautiful lie that is fraternity consulting?”

I rub my eyes.

“All of this, and what do you have to show for it? Three days on one campus and then you’re gone, and you know that the impact you’ve made…is there an impact?”

“Thank you for brightening my day. Now I’ll go spend the afternoon in the rain.”

“The leadership development, the workshops: it’s not a service to the students. It’s
branding
, Charles, and that’s all it is. You know it, whether you want to admit it or not. No different than a billion-dollar corporation donating a few million to breast cancer research to create a loving, community-friendly image for themselves.”

I shake my head. “And how is it any different than your degree program here at Bowling Green? Your Millennial Generation research, your brand?”

And Dr. Vernon is silent and I think I’ve landed my own in-your-face spike, and I’m about to jump out of my seat and punch the air and scream that I beat him, that I’m right, and
fuck you
!, but then Dr. Vernon claps. Slaps the desktop hard and his cufflink creates a metallic ringing in the room that sounds as loud as a university bell-tower’s between-class clanging. “Excellent, excellent!” he says.

My mouth is open.

“This stuff about Millennials,” he says, smile now gone, tanned face smooth, the ringing in the room replaced with dead silence. “You’re right. That’s the sexy stuff. It brings in the money and the graduate students. We believe in it, certainly, but it is undeniably our
brand
. But truthfully, do you know the research I’m most interested in?”

I tell him that I have no idea.

“In this program, we want students to ask difficult questions about fraternity life,” he says. “We want students who will ask, what sort of positive gains are
actually
made by fraternity consultants in just three days? And further, what is it that makes men so loyal to the institution of fraternity, to the point that they refuse to acknowledge any flaw? You—even
you
, two minutes ago—seemed intent on defending your own work even as you dismissed ours. Fraternity men will go to extraordinary lengths to defend behavior that, in any other context, they would find reprehensible…all in the name of their Greek letters. Why is that? In this program”—and he leans forward again and stares at me with Walter LaFaber intensity—“we allow nothing as sacred. We ask, why do we even have a system of ‘pledging’ when we know that it creates division, when it is bound to give rise to hazing? Why keep it? In our program, we find ways to
re-think
fraternity life. Everything about it. Why such an emphasis on large chapter size, on massive recruitment classes and quotas? Why do we consider it a good thing to have 150-woman sorority chapters? Why such an emphasis on housing, on physical structures? We look at motivations, however hidden. We look at—to use your word—
agendas
.”

“You can’t change these things. You know that, right?”

“If we truly want to be leaders, we’ll make unpopular choices. And the most unpopular question of all: why do we even need the institution of the
National
Fraternity Headquarters? Why do we need this sprawling empire of chapters across the country? You said it yourself, Mr. Washington: it’s a four-way tug-of-war. Couldn’t we simply alleviate the conflict by removing one of the four antagonists, allowing the campus—rather than some unknowing headquarters—to dictate its own culture? Wouldn’t we be better served with stronger Greek Life offices on each individual campus, the national dues that students pay—the money that currently goes to fund fraternity and sorority consultants—staying right there to fund campus initiatives that are shaped to that specific student population?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

But in this moment, it doesn’t sound ridiculous. My fight has left me.

“There are no easy answers, Mr. Washington. But on this campus, we study every single program that we offer, which ones work and which do not. We study student responses. We care about programs that will
actually
service the students in the best way possible, programs that will change the culture of fraternity life, not just the
perception
of fraternities.” He taps the folder. “We don’t care about pumping more money into some faraway headquarters.”

“That’s all very noble,” I say. “Thank you for all of this.”

“You ask tough questions about the Greek Advisors you’ve seen across the country, Charles, but you might be better served asking those same questions about your own employer.” He lets his hand drop to his desktop, shakes his head, then looks me in the eyes. “Do we want to change the culture? Not just
say
we’re doing it.”

“Of course,” I say. Softly.

“We haven’t had a consultant in the program in a few semesters,” he says. “Most national fraternities are now telling their consultants to avoid us; they know we’re onto something. But we could benefit from someone with real-world experience, someone who knows the institutional failings. Someone who wants to create change on a big scale.”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s a grant available,” he says. “But we need someone from the inside. You do still want to change the culture, don’t you?” His cuff links flicker once again as he folds his hands before his face, assuming the sort of distinguished pose that one might see on a book jacket. “That’s why you took this job to begin with, correct?”

“Change the culture,” I say, whispering now.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, Charles. We can make this happen. Trust me.”

*

When I leave, we shake hands, and then I’m immediately met by an army of graduate assistants outside Dr. Vernon’s door. World no longer spinning, just uneven, off-balance.

“What did you think, what did you think?” Todd asks me.

Dr. Vernon’s door shuts behind me.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” Todd asks.

I open my mouth, can’t think of a way to respond, so I just raise my palms.

“Still processing all of it, I understand,” Todd says
. He hands me a copy of
The Chronicle
, on the cover of which is the title, “How we can help Millennials discover their future,” by Dr. Vernon. “Read it,” he says. “It’s so frickin’ inspiring! It’ll make you a believer.”

*

My remaining time at Bowling Green passes uneasily, a mild case of indigestion after a so-so dinner that you’re still not quite sure how to judge. The chicken was cooked well, but was it cooked well enough? Did you bite down on one pink squishy piece, or was that just your imagination trying to account for your stomach ache?

“Charles is…staring at a blank report on his computer screen.”

“Char
les is…eating McDonalds again.”

“Charles is…out of toilet paper in the bathroom. Sitting here on the toilet, I called the chapter president, but he can’t get to the bathroom supplies. They’re locked in a janitor’s closet somewhere, he says. Really?!”

“Charles is…facilitating an Alcohol Responsibility Workshop, my first in several weeks. Blank stares. A few of the kids brought laptops. They’re gaming. I shouldn’t have bothered.”

*

At some point, I leave the chapter house and head to a gas station to get a soda. While I’m filling the cup at the soda fountain, my cell phone rings, surprises me, and I spill most of my Super Big Gulp across the metal countertop.

I sneak away from the
spill site, dig in my pocket for my vibrating cell phone, and when I finally pull it out—expecting an 800 number or an Indianapolis area code (LaFaber)—it is instead a 505 area code. I recognize the code, but can’t remember from where. California? Indiana? Pennsylvania? Michigan? So many places. I flip open the phone, and am greeted by a female voice burning with acrimony: “I know who you are,” she says. “I know who you
are,
Charles.”