38-52 - Brotherhood
I suppose it is a fortunate by-product of living to the cusp of 70 that one can gain a bit of perspective on the insanity of youth. I often think back on some of the excesses of college with a high degree of embarrassment. I am thankful that only a few photos exist, except for a few rolls of film sent to Seattle Film Works.
My high school years were spent in a very high degree of tee-totaling nerd-dom, firmly ensconced in a safe overscheduled zone of AP courses, countless high school band concerts and rehearsals (plus an extra-curricular “Gloria Band”), “lettering” on the Math Team, and 20 hours of work per week at the local Stop & Shop.
So, a certain degree of excess was called for once I descended upon William and Mary, free to define a new identity. An embarrassing degree. All of this is on my mind this week because we’re going to a William and Mary Homecoming.
During my first year, fraternities held events called "smokers." I don't know if this is still done. The structure of “smoker” consisted of an open house, two kegs of beer (that was the limit), and an 18-year-old drinking age. Looking back, it was not a good combination.
With a few partners in crime on Yates Second South, I took full advantage of these events. We had no intention of ever joining any of these fraternities. We often used fake names on our name badges (“Juan MorefordeRoad” and “Tom Dickenhari” seemed much cleverer at the time than they do in retrospect) because we had no intention of wandering into the whole “Greek” experience other than drinking their beer.
However, by the end of our first year, we realized we were caught in a William and Mary Catch-22. Rising sophomore men wound in a housing lottery, the losing prize being exile to an off-campus dorm named JBT, located next to the Eastern State Hospital. Per Wikipedia, “built in 1773, it was the first public facility in the present-day United States constructed solely for the care and treatment of the mentally ill.” I had no idea that my own family history investigations would loop back decades later to include a rich asylum vein (see Immigrant Secrets and my blog). Our speculations about patients at the hospital were not kind and often made up.
We did have one thing right, though, and it centered around the Colonial Williamsburg movie Story of a Patriot, which starred a pre-Hawaii 50 Jack Lord. Per the IMDB.com site:
Williamsburg-area residents were employed as extras. When enough could not be found, director George Seaton went to a nearby mental institution (Eastern State Hospital of Virginia) and proposed using selected patients. Psychiatrists thought this would be excellent therapy, so some thirty inmates appeared in the film without incident. In appreciation for the participation of its patients and staff, the premiere of the film was held at the Eastern State Hospital of Virginia in early 1957.
But I digress. The net-net is that we were scrambling for a place to live at the end of freshman year.
Enter the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity.
Several friends on our hall had pledged PiKA. They told us PiKA needed more brothers to fill their house. Fraternity houses at William and Mary at the time (I wonder if this is still the case) were owned by the College, so they had to have every slot filled. More importantly, said houses were on campus. We explained that we did not intend to join any fraternity, but we liked beer. And so, Juan MorefordeRoad, Tom Dickenhari, and a few other Yates Second South exiles entered the PiKA House.
One thing led to another, and we wound up joining. I wish I could say that this was the end of our shenanigans and that we immediately transformed the fraternity into a force for social justice. Hahahaha. We did achieve four significant things during my time at PiKA.
We waged a heroic – albeit ultimately unsuccessful – campaign to make Dorothy Hamill a Little Sister after she won a 1976 Olympic Gold Medal, despite criticism that we were “making a mockery of the Little Sister program.”
We (mostly) avoided arrest.
Due to a loophole in regional ABC rules – or maybe just a sheer abrogation of official responsibility -- we grew to become a two-keg fraternity at football games. This was an actual thing.
We discovered countless ways – including disguises – to override the Friday three-beer limit at the Williamsburg Budweiser tour.
But there is a "but" to this story.
Amidst all these shenanigans -- and things that frankly are embarrassing to reflect upon -- was a seed of something quite different.
Many, many of my fraternity brothers went on to do amazing things. Doctors, dentists, lawyers, judges, clergy, professors, writers, veterans, and many other highly responsible things. Who knew that that was there all along? Almost all these characters grew into responsible citizens with spouses, kids, and grandkids whom they desperately love.
One more “but.” A few years ago, a fraternity brother organized an email chain of 70+ brothers from the late 70s to provide a platform for things like an NCAA basketball Bracket or NFL Pool.
Along the way, this has opened an entirely new chain of communications. As this group of 70s graduates approaches their own 70s, tragedies are emerging. We all are not bulletproof. And this email chain has unexpectedly become a connective thread as each of us goes through life's inevitable tragedies. The email comments frequently bring me to tears and encourage me in the soundness of the Brotherhood I stumbled upon many years ago. In a world that increasingly seems insane and disconnected, this ongoing link gives me hope. MG tells me I never laugh as much as I do when talking with my PiKA buddies, something precious in these tense times.
I don't know how this blessing happened except with good luck and grace. But I am sure grateful that this group needed to fill their house 50 years ago.
Phi Phi FY, my friends.
