Almost by definition, college boys are gross. The definition of a “pledge banquet” may not be dissimilar. For most people, a banquet is a formal, elegant dinner, often followed by speeches, many of which can be boring. There was nothing boring, however, about medieval banqueting halls where gorging was done to the accompaniment of jugglers or other rollicking entertainers. A pledge banquet resembles its medieval model.
One evening in mid-February, a few weeks after my initiation as a pledge, our fraternal gathering began very pleasantly and socially. The Chapter held a party for the pledges of several sororities – Delta Gamma, Alpha Chi Omega, Chi Omega and Alpha Xi Delta. I had a lot of fun and met some nice ΔΓ pledges. After the mixed party had ended, the Actives gave us pledges our own “banquet.”
We had been requested to bring old clothes with us to the party. I’m glad I did. The buildup was psychological. With hints, we were told how horrible the rest of the evening would be. These meager hints inadequately explained the conditions for the actual event.
At midnight, the Actives removed our watches, rings, and glasses. Our shoelaces were draped over our necks. We were marched into the darkened basement where we usually ate dinner and the Actives held their weekly meeting.
My myopic eyes could make out few forms. We were led around a table in the meeting room. The pledges were instructed to shout: “We crave food.” We got it – food? Our orders were taken, either steak or spaghetti. I requested the latter, without meatballs, since it was Friday. I shouldn’t have bothered; it was all the same. The served substance was brown and fluid. Over it, was poured a chartreuse sauce which smelled like paint. The beverage was a robin’s egg blue.
One of the more fun-loving Actives sat at the head of the table. He was wrapped in a protective sheet and wore a cullender on his head as a crown. As we stood looking at our repast, he read a story about men lost in the desert. At various times during the reading, we were required to eat and drink while our hands were bound behind us with the shoelaces we had once carried. The stuff tasted exactly like vomit. What a chemist they must have as chef! It really wasn’t the taste so much as the lumps that bothered me! I, however, did not swallow any. I smeared it around my mouth and dumped half of it under the paper plate. But I couldn’t fake the drink. I chugged three glasses of something that someone poured into my mouth. Some of my pledge brothers were not so fortunate. What was going down met what was coming up.
Finally, it was over. The banquet had lasted less than half an hour, but it seemed like it should have been all night. Afterwards, we were forced to clean up the mess. It was then we learned what the recipe was. The entree consisted of boiled Mother’s Oats seasoned with garlic and spices. The sauce was green food coloring in water. The smell? Who knows? The drink was colored buttermilk.
Having endured this experience, I felt a lot closer to eleven of the pledges; one of the older ones had managed to avoid the event. (He was later called before the active chapter to explain his absence.)
The banquet had served its purpose: bringing a dozen individuals into a single unit through shared adversity. After wrapping my smelly, food-spotted clothes in newspaper, I went to the all-night diner with the other pledges for coffee and donuts! We were crazy but happy. We were becoming a pledge-class.