My Fraternity Saved Me from Myself

 

My Fraternity Saved Me from Myself
by Dave Wright

“Place your hands on the table in front of you and keep your head down.”

A bright light bore through the edges of the blindfold I was wearing.

The room was filled with cigar smoke. Someone in a hoarse voice said, “Name the founding fathers.” I stammered the names I had memorized as a FarmHouse Fraternity pledge. It was the beginning of fall quarter, 1973.

“What year was FarmHouse founded?” another voice demanded.

“1905.”

“Keep your head down!” shouted someone in the back of the room. My head had not moved a fraction of an inch since I had been escorted into the room.

“Now, your final question. If you are able to answer this question, you will be initiated as a full-fledged member of our fraternity. Repeat The Object.”

This shouldn’t be that hard, I thought. In those days—unlike today—I had a keen memory. When I was in ninth grade, I memorized the entire periodic chart with the atomic weights of each element to four decimal points.

The appropriate response to this boasting should be, “Of course. Back then there were only four elements. What’s the atomic weight of wind, fire, air, and water?” They had identified fewer elements than there are now, but there were more than four. When I found out that I had over-studied and those details were not necessary for the test, I shed the memory faster than a kid forgets his chores.

Initiation began on Thursday night of my first week in veterinary school at the University of Minnesota. Our pledge class of seven members were kept up all night cleaning the house, so when the lights went down for a marathon slide presentation on “The Histology of the Integument,” my eyelids flipped closed in perfect harmony with the light switch. I shook my head a moment later. Am I going to flunk out of vet school before I get started?

On Friday, all pledges were assigned an active member to accompany them on campus—not only to assure that we behaved according to the polite protocol demanded by the fraternity, but also to confirm that we wore the assigned dress code: a sport coat and tie. It stood out from our classmates, but it was classier than being expected to wear a dunce hat or a sign around our neck that said, “Kiss me. I’m a pledge.”

I struggled through the day of lectures nodding and bobbing, but I survived. After dinner that night, we stayed up a second consecutive night stripping and waxing the floors and cleaning the carpets. Formal initiation was scheduled for Saturday evening. After lunch, each of us was handed an index card that we were told to memorize by that evening. It was “The Object of Our Fraternity” and read:

“The Object of our fraternity is to promote good fellowship, to encourage studiousness, and to inspire its members in seeking the best in their chosen lines of study as well as in life.  Progress shall mark our every step; the spirit of congeniality shall reign at all times; and every member shall be honest with himself as with his brothers.  Men elected to our membership are considered to be of good moral character, to be high in scholarship, to have the capacity for meeting and making friends, and to give promise of service to their fellowmen and to the world.  To be, and become such, may, at times require a sacrifice of time, pleasure and comforts.”

It's only four sentences. I can do this.

“The object of our fra…”

“Speak up! I can’t hear you,” shouted someone from the back of the room.

“The object of our fraternity is to…” I stammered, “…promote good fellowship…to…”

What was the next phrase?

“Take a deep breath and start over,” encouraged my big brother who stood over me with his hand on my shoulder. “You can do this.”

“The object…of our fraternity…is to…”

“He can’t even recite the object!” shouted another gruff voice from the back of the smokey room. “Take him away!”

A moment later, I was led to an empty room and asked to wait there.

Fifteen minutes later, one of the active members came in to console me. “Sorry, Dave. All you had to do was repeat the object, and you would have become a member. Do you still have the postcard with ‘The Object’ on it?”

“Of course.” I pulled it from my rear pocket. “I’ve been working on it all afternoon. I don’t know why I can’t repeat it. It’s not that hard.”

“Tell you what,” said the active member in his most sincere voice, “Let me go back in there and see if I can get them to give you a second chance.”

“That would be great,” I whispered. “I’d like to try again.”

I re-read the card, desperately trying to memorize the paragraph. However, each time before I was half through, I had to peek at the card to be reminded of what phrase came next. What’s wrong with me? A half-hour went by. The active member returned. Too soon. “They’re gonna’ let you have a second chance,” he said.

I croaked my appreciation. “You sure?” Lacking the confidence I had on my first attempt, I said, “I hope I can do better this time.”

“Let me help you put on your blindfold. Now, put hour hands on my shoulders and follow me. Don’t say a word.”

The halls were eerily quiet as I paced behind him. The only sound was another set of feet that shuffle next to me. I was led into a room that was empty of sound and light but full of fresh air.

I waited for the next inquisition to begin. More quiet minutes. More shuffling feet.

“Remove the blindfold,” demanded a person from the back of the room.

As soon as my blindfold was removed, the lights were turned on, and everyone in the room shouted, “Congratulations! Welcome to FarmHouse!”

All of my pledge brothers were standing next to me blinking in surprise and relief.

Nowadays, this would be considered hazing, and this type of initiation has been discontinued for years. I’m glad for this improvement. I understand how some individuals might be scarred for life by it and how the ritual could get carried away to the detriment of some students.

But I found my initiation to be a positive experience.

For one thing, it allowed me to experience firsthand the devastating effects of sleep deprivation: how it affects memory, how it affects judgement, and how it can affect our self-esteem. I understand why people can be manipulated so easily simply by preventing them from sleeping. When I found out that most medical interns and residents are expected to work uninterrupted shifts of twenty-flour hours or longer, I wonder about the quality of care their patients are receiving.

I also understand why driving without sleep may be as dangerous as driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

Finally, it was remarkable to me that we pledges had all failed—but had been given a second chance. We were admitted to the fraternity by grace, not by merit—almost like it was a religious experience.

I never thought of myself as a “frat man.” When I entered college as a freshman in 1971, I believed the stereotype that all fraternities are full of drunk young men who dedicated themselves to debauchery and promiscuous co-eds. I changed my mind when I discovered that FarmHouse was different from other fraternities. FarmHouse was (and is) a dry house. No alcohol or drugs are allowed in the house. This was a game changer for me and allowed me to explore the organization further.

FarmHouse also embraces the values that I had been brought up with. Its motto is "Builder of Men.” It is committed to building well-rounded men academically, socially, spiritually, and physically.

Unlike some of my fellow students, I didn’t have much of a problem academically. I had disciplined study habits and knew how to test well. But I was a stereotypical nerd—in the worst sense of the word. Prior to a physics test, I would lubricate my Pickett slide rule with graphite so it wouldn’t stick. I would sacrifice a ten-minute conversation with a friend to study for an exam. Had I not experienced fraternity life at Farmhouse, I could have holed up in the college library and emerged four years later with a degree, but no social skills to use in practice.

It is from these and other flaws that FarmHouse saved me. Without FarmHouse, I doubt my wife would have given me a second look.

My fraternity brothers accomplished this daunting task with a combination of direct expectations, good-natured ridicule and leading by example. Their efforts made me socially tolerable, but I still retain some of my old nerdy habits. To this day, I carry a pen and spiral notebook in my shirt pocket. My kids accuse me of wearing a ball point in my swimsuit. In place of a slide rule attached to my hip, I wear a cell phone the size of a small television…and a pair of suspenders to hold it in place.

****

On Monday evenings, we had formal dinners where we were expected to wear a sport coat and tie, and greet guests in the parlor. Prior to FarmHouse, I would have been too shy to approach a stranger. Why would anyone want to know who I am? But after being coached to approach guests with, “Hi. My name’s Dave Wright. Welcome to FarmHouse. Tell me about yourself,” it became second nature to interact with unfamiliar people.

“Good-natured ridicule” included a ritual of “showering.” If a brother was becoming too obnoxious, or needed to be put in his place—or most often—needed to be recognized for being able to give and take a joke, he was rewarded with a shower. I had plenty of occasions to hear the cry, “Shower Wright!” I resigned myself to being hauled out to the back step, held in place by each limb, and doused with several buckets of water—warm water if the brotherhood was being particularly gracious.

Our rooms were designed for double-occupancy, similar to dorm rooms at the time, and we changed roommates every quarter. (The University was on a quarter system then, not semesters.) My night-time showers ended abruptly when I was in bed and my roommate at the time, who was in his underwear, took up a canoe paddle that I stored beneath my upper bunk, and took up a defensive position at the door. He held it like a weapon, and in a loud and intimidating voice, dared any aggressor to cross the threshold. True brotherly love.

The night before my wedding day, I thought about the showers I had received. We were expecting about forty of my fraternity brothers, and I shared a motel room with a couple of fraternity brothers who were in the wedding. Surely, I would get a farewell blessing from one of them. I tossed and turned. I finally got to sleep around two a.m.

“Shower Wright!” jolted me out of my slumber.

The room was dark and silent. It was only a dream.

****

In a further effort to build each man socially, the fraternity hosted a “date party” at the end of each quarter. We usually had a hayride or some other casual event in the fall, perhaps a dinner and dance in the winter, and a formal awards banquet in the spring.

I found that I had no time to devote to a full-time girlfriend while I was committed to vet school and the other activities of campus life, so I tended to leave finding a date until the last minute. That too, was a learning experience: I learned how to face and accept rejection.

In those days, we had no cell phones and no private phones in our rooms. A single phone booth stood adjacent to the parlor and was responsible for all incoming and outgoing calls for forty young men. When the phone rang, anyone in the parlor was expected to answer the phone and track down the recipient. Phone chatting was discouraged. Conduct your business and get off the line. So, on the occasion that I needed to find a date, I waited until the booth was free and stepped in with my “black book” of phone numbers in hand. I listened as the rotary dial clicked through the numbers.

No answer.

Dial a different number.

No answer.

Dial again. “Hello? This is Dave Wright. I was wondering if you would like to attend FarmHouse’s date party with me.”

“Busy? Okay, thanks.”

Dial again. “It’s a hayride. You say you’re allergic to straw? Okay, maybe another time.”

Dial again. “Dave Wright. You know, the guy who used to live in Bailey Hall. Oh. You’re going with someone. Okay, thanks.”

Dial again. “You’d like to go? Did I hear you right? Great! See you then.”

I stepped out of the phone booth, which by now was stifling and full of body odor.

A cheer went up from the brothers who had been huddled behind the door listening.

“Yea, Wright! Way to go! Twelve calls for one date. That’s a record!”

****

Once class, homework, and organized events were finished, the inevitable “bull sessions” began. This is where true brotherhood matured. It was a time when we got to know each other better than we might know our biological family. I often left the parlor after midnight listening to the “An-Sci Five” brainstorm creative descriptions for their next livestock judging contest. No topic was off limits. Our obsession with women, and the lack of them, dominated many conversations, but heavier topics emerged—even religion.

We were in our early twenties and for most of us, it was a time to explore and defend our values. I remember asking one of my roommates if he really felt comfortable hanging a picture of Christ on the wall.

He turned to me with a frown. “What? Am I supposed to hide my beliefs?” Then he placed a Bible on the bookshelf next to it.

I had better prepare myself to defend my faith or let it go. I hung on.

As I moved from one room to another between quarters, it was interesting to see what each new roommate brought with them. One fellow came in with a duffel bag and an alarm clock. I laughed and asked, “Is that it?”

He stuffed his bag in the closet and said, “Fresh underwear for a week doesn’t take much room. I’ll be going home to the farm every weekend. Mom will do my wash.”

He was one of the An-Sci Five, so I was snoring before he came to bed. I had a lot of privacy that quarter.

I didn’t travel that light. Every quarter I moved my stereo, turntable, and reel-to-reel tape deck. I mounted the speakers above the closet and checked the connections with the overture to “Tommy.” Then I pinned my personal motto on the bulletin board. It was an index card printed with green magic marker:

“Efficiency and organization are the keys to progress.”

I agree. That should have been worth a shower from anyone who had to endure me for the next three months. One roommate took it in stride. He moved in and posted a index card with a motto of his own. It had a simple message:

“Work, you dog.”

****

I’ve never been much of an athlete, but building the man physically was another expectation of membership. We had a number of intramural teams that competed with other fraternities. Each quarter our first teams in football, basketball and softball took on our arch-rival, Alpha Gama Rho to compete for “The Cup.” It was a traveling trophy: a spittoon that was repainted with FarmHouse or AGR each time it changed hands, and was displayed proudly in the winner’s trophy case.

I never qualified to play on the first teams, but I found a natural home with Miller’s Marauders. It was our intramural team for physical misfits and those who cared little about a win/loss record. My favorite teammate on the Marauders had played football for the Gophers his freshman year. He was so disenchanted with the intensity of athletics at that level that he vowed never to play sports competitively again. He was the perfect lineman to protect me in my role as fifth-string quarterback.

****

While I was in vet school, I lived on campus in FarmHouse during the summers. I loved living there when the pace of life was slower. But on one occasion I over-extended myself: I worked a full-time job at the soils lab; I was the summer business manager for the fraternity; and I bled horses and goats for the ALG medical school project. (Other vet students and I were hired to inject the animals with a suspension of white blood cells to generate an immune response. Two weeks later, we would begin to draw blood, harvest the plasma, re-infuse the red blood cells, and take the plasma to a lab on the Minneapolis campus.) In addition to this workload, every weekend I attended the wedding of a Farmhouse brother.

By late August, I crashed with mononucleosis. It’s called “the kissing disease,” but I can assure you, kissing was not the etiology of my disease. It was plain and simple fatigue.

I usually reserved the week before the beginning of fall quarter for a trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, but I had to forego that year’s trip because of mono. However, another brother who happened to be the quarterback for our first team suggested we take a less rigorous camping trip instead. He said, “Let’s go to Itasca State Park for a few days. I’ll bring a football along and we’ll call it quarterback camp.”

Marvelous. I’d still get to take a camping vacation and we’d be close enough to civilization to get home if I had a relapse.

“There’s only one condition,” said my quarterback friend.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I refuse to be seen with you if you wear those dark socks with shorts and tennis shoes.”

FarmHouse even upgraded my appreciation for fashion. (My wife will assure you that it didn’t last.)

The last year I lived in the house, I was honored to receive the “Doane Award for Master Builder of Men.” That was nearly five decades ago. I doubt that I was a worthy recipient, but the inscription inspires an ongoing challenge:

He best builds lives of other men
Who starts from within,
So that when the job's all done
The Judge will say,
"A Master Builder passed this way."

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