| General Non-Fiction posted August 9, 2022 | Chapters: |
...17 18 -19- 20... 
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It becomes more vicious with the passage of time
A chapter in the book A Fly on the Wall
On...Hazing
by Rachelle Allen
| Background Observations and musings of the situations that present themselves in my daily life. They are offered up in random order, rather than the chronological way in which they occurred. |
September 9, 2017
My first experience with hazing, subtle as it was, presented itself in third grade. The memory is so vivid still, it could have happened ten minutes ago.
In our class, I was The Smart Girl. I was standing third-from-the-end of the line in gym class as we readied ourselves to return to our regular classroom. Suddenly, The Popular Pretty Girl appeared in front of me and, tossing her head to one side to indicate the girl now directly behind her, she asked, "Do you like her?" As I said, I was The Smart Girl, so I was acutely aware of the perils that lay in wait should I answer this probe incorrectly.
Truthfully, I had no opinion either way of the girl in question. Her desk was nowhere near mine, we rode different buses, and we never shared a lunch table. I didn't like or dislike her; I simply didn't know her. So, I settled for a shrug and twist of my lips as a response.
"Well, don't like her," the Popular Pretty Girl advised. "She still sucks her thumb." She then walked righteously back to the front of the line to reclaim her spot.
The Thumbsucker turned to me, eyes welling up. I gave her a doleful gaze but didn't go the extra mile of admitting that I, too, still sucked my thumb...every night, in the dark, in my baronial-sized bedroom because it was the only way I could feel brave enough to fall asleep.
Instead, I settled for never sucking my thumb again, lest I be next on the shunning-as-hazing list. No. Thank. You!
My next experience with hazing came --where else?-- in college. I was a pledge in the Popular Pretty Girl sorority and, because we were shackled with the moniker "Chi Psi Babies," on Initiation Night, we had to (a) don big cloth diapers, bibs and bonnets, (b) have pacifiers in our mouths, (c) get on all fours in front of the student union and (d) have our sorority's Greek letters painted onto our diaper bottoms by the pledge trainers. It was less-than-delightful, certainly, because it was a campus-wide spectator sport, but, hey! Being a Popular Pretty sorority girl requires some sacrifices. Who doesn't know that!
I nearly blew it an hour later, though, at the Candlelight Ceremony of Truth because, for an unthinking moment, I reverted to being The Smart Girl.
The pledge trainers, their features contorting eerily as candles flickered on the table below them, asked each pledge, individually, in solemn, sanctimonious tones, "Since you've come to this college, have you ever engaged in social intercourse?"
The Popular Pretty (and, as it turned out, not exactly brilliant) pledges in line before me all gave wide-eyed, innocent stares toward our pledge trainers --the kind of expressions children with pockets full of Oreos give their moms when asked if they stole anything from the cookie jar-- moved their head from side to side and said, "Noooo." What GOOD babies these pledges were! So obviously worthy of this sorority!
"Rachelle?" they asked when it was my turn. "Since you've come to this college, have YOU ever engaged in social intercourse?"
"SOCIAL intercourse?" I repeated, stressing the first word.
They nodded solemnly, like this was Confession, they were the Mother Superiors, and they knew my deepest transgressions.
"SOCIAL intercourse." I repeated the line one more time, first-word emphasis still in place. Again, they nodded solemnly. "Have I ever TALKED? Yeah, I've talked since I've been at this college." Without really wanting them to, my words came out with the tiniest touch of scorn mixed in.
A deathly hush fell over the room. I felt my fellow pledges freeze and begin to pray for me. The flames from the candles around the room cast shadows onto the walls that looked like twitching elfin dancers casting a spell on me.
The pledge trainers glowered at my insubordination.
Finally, they moved on to the dark-eyed beauty to my right, my roommate. "LuAnne," they began with stoic restraint, "since you've come to this college, have YOU ever engaged in social intercourse?"
I could sense her lower lip trembling. Then, instead of following my lead, she must have started having guilt-riddled flashbacks of nightly escapes with her boyfriend because she said, "No," but with an inflection that had a question mark at its end. She had also used a voice that could only be described as baby talk. (The diapers and bib had obviously worked their magic on poor LuAnne.)
Now, just this morning --forty-three years later, mind you-- I experienced my third bout of hazing. I can attest --in, fact, under oath, if need be-- that it becomes substantially worse with age. By this point in women's lives, their cruelty has been honed to an art form.
I entered Aqua Fit class for the first time, all decked out in my beautiful new one-shouldered leopard tankini that I just loved. Like a Kindergartener about to board her bus for the first time, I was so excited for the new adventure and the opportunity to make new friends.
The pool was enormous and quite full-to-capacity with women. It was then that I noticed that all of them were swaddled in sensible black or navy blue, sturdy-looking one-piece garments --some even skirted-- and that every single classmate sported black footwear in the shape of duck's feet. They glowered at me in a way eerily reminiscent of my sorority pledge trainers. Their animosity felt downright palpable. It grew exponentially when I tried to find a little spot for myself among them. Those nasty sea serpents actually spread their arms out so that their fingers were touching! No Admittance was their loud-and-clear collective body language. I was incredulous.
Undaunted, I made my way to the very back of the pool which was empty except for a tall, pasty bald guy who, down to the ruddy splotches all over his arms and chest, rather resembled an awkward, aging giraffe.
"You can't be here!" he roared at me, scowling.
"Well, but there's no room anywhere else!" I implored him, feeling like I was back in my third-grade gym class.
"I said you can't be back here!" he roared again.
Recouping my senses --and-pluck-- I said, "Well, I'm GOING to be back here, because there's no room anywhere else. But I promise not to encroach on your precious space, okay, Dude?"
With that, I stood a good six feet away.
But sadly, that was nowhere near enough, because it was then that the impact of the women's hazing struck. It hit me hard and with brutal force. I watched in horror as, the minute the music began, my Jurassic neighbor used his thumbs to expand the waistband of his trunks in front of himself to their outermost limits. Then, looking down, lovingly, at his dance partner, he walked in a wide circle over and over and over again for the next fifty minutes. Try getting aqua fit with THAT in your periphery!
But I'll show them! Starting tomorrow, I'll be arriving at that damn pool a good thirty minutes before everyone else. Haze THAT, you Loch Ness monsters!
My first experience with hazing, subtle as it was, presented itself in third grade. The memory is so vivid still, it could have happened ten minutes ago.
In our class, I was The Smart Girl. I was standing third-from-the-end of the line in gym class as we readied ourselves to return to our regular classroom. Suddenly, The Popular Pretty Girl appeared in front of me and, tossing her head to one side to indicate the girl now directly behind her, she asked, "Do you like her?" As I said, I was The Smart Girl, so I was acutely aware of the perils that lay in wait should I answer this probe incorrectly.
Truthfully, I had no opinion either way of the girl in question. Her desk was nowhere near mine, we rode different buses, and we never shared a lunch table. I didn't like or dislike her; I simply didn't know her. So, I settled for a shrug and twist of my lips as a response.
"Well, don't like her," the Popular Pretty Girl advised. "She still sucks her thumb." She then walked righteously back to the front of the line to reclaim her spot.
The Thumbsucker turned to me, eyes welling up. I gave her a doleful gaze but didn't go the extra mile of admitting that I, too, still sucked my thumb...every night, in the dark, in my baronial-sized bedroom because it was the only way I could feel brave enough to fall asleep.
Instead, I settled for never sucking my thumb again, lest I be next on the shunning-as-hazing list. No. Thank. You!
My next experience with hazing came --where else?-- in college. I was a pledge in the Popular Pretty Girl sorority and, because we were shackled with the moniker "Chi Psi Babies," on Initiation Night, we had to (a) don big cloth diapers, bibs and bonnets, (b) have pacifiers in our mouths, (c) get on all fours in front of the student union and (d) have our sorority's Greek letters painted onto our diaper bottoms by the pledge trainers. It was less-than-delightful, certainly, because it was a campus-wide spectator sport, but, hey! Being a Popular Pretty sorority girl requires some sacrifices. Who doesn't know that!
I nearly blew it an hour later, though, at the Candlelight Ceremony of Truth because, for an unthinking moment, I reverted to being The Smart Girl.
The pledge trainers, their features contorting eerily as candles flickered on the table below them, asked each pledge, individually, in solemn, sanctimonious tones, "Since you've come to this college, have you ever engaged in social intercourse?"
The Popular Pretty (and, as it turned out, not exactly brilliant) pledges in line before me all gave wide-eyed, innocent stares toward our pledge trainers --the kind of expressions children with pockets full of Oreos give their moms when asked if they stole anything from the cookie jar-- moved their head from side to side and said, "Noooo." What GOOD babies these pledges were! So obviously worthy of this sorority!
"Rachelle?" they asked when it was my turn. "Since you've come to this college, have YOU ever engaged in social intercourse?"
"SOCIAL intercourse?" I repeated, stressing the first word.
They nodded solemnly, like this was Confession, they were the Mother Superiors, and they knew my deepest transgressions.
"SOCIAL intercourse." I repeated the line one more time, first-word emphasis still in place. Again, they nodded solemnly. "Have I ever TALKED? Yeah, I've talked since I've been at this college." Without really wanting them to, my words came out with the tiniest touch of scorn mixed in.
A deathly hush fell over the room. I felt my fellow pledges freeze and begin to pray for me. The flames from the candles around the room cast shadows onto the walls that looked like twitching elfin dancers casting a spell on me.
The pledge trainers glowered at my insubordination.
Finally, they moved on to the dark-eyed beauty to my right, my roommate. "LuAnne," they began with stoic restraint, "since you've come to this college, have YOU ever engaged in social intercourse?"
I could sense her lower lip trembling. Then, instead of following my lead, she must have started having guilt-riddled flashbacks of nightly escapes with her boyfriend because she said, "No," but with an inflection that had a question mark at its end. She had also used a voice that could only be described as baby talk. (The diapers and bib had obviously worked their magic on poor LuAnne.)
Now, just this morning --forty-three years later, mind you-- I experienced my third bout of hazing. I can attest --in, fact, under oath, if need be-- that it becomes substantially worse with age. By this point in women's lives, their cruelty has been honed to an art form.
I entered Aqua Fit class for the first time, all decked out in my beautiful new one-shouldered leopard tankini that I just loved. Like a Kindergartener about to board her bus for the first time, I was so excited for the new adventure and the opportunity to make new friends.
The pool was enormous and quite full-to-capacity with women. It was then that I noticed that all of them were swaddled in sensible black or navy blue, sturdy-looking one-piece garments --some even skirted-- and that every single classmate sported black footwear in the shape of duck's feet. They glowered at me in a way eerily reminiscent of my sorority pledge trainers. Their animosity felt downright palpable. It grew exponentially when I tried to find a little spot for myself among them. Those nasty sea serpents actually spread their arms out so that their fingers were touching! No Admittance was their loud-and-clear collective body language. I was incredulous.
Undaunted, I made my way to the very back of the pool which was empty except for a tall, pasty bald guy who, down to the ruddy splotches all over his arms and chest, rather resembled an awkward, aging giraffe.
"You can't be here!" he roared at me, scowling.
"Well, but there's no room anywhere else!" I implored him, feeling like I was back in my third-grade gym class.
"I said you can't be back here!" he roared again.
Recouping my senses --and-pluck-- I said, "Well, I'm GOING to be back here, because there's no room anywhere else. But I promise not to encroach on your precious space, okay, Dude?"
With that, I stood a good six feet away.
But sadly, that was nowhere near enough, because it was then that the impact of the women's hazing struck. It hit me hard and with brutal force. I watched in horror as, the minute the music began, my Jurassic neighbor used his thumbs to expand the waistband of his trunks in front of himself to their outermost limits. Then, looking down, lovingly, at his dance partner, he walked in a wide circle over and over and over again for the next fifty minutes. Try getting aqua fit with THAT in your periphery!
But I'll show them! Starting tomorrow, I'll be arriving at that damn pool a good thirty minutes before everyone else. Haze THAT, you Loch Ness monsters!
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