We’ve spent the past few days observing the freshfolk and questioning their NSOP theme—now we get a chance to hear from them. Sweet ’16er S.T. shares the following firsthand account of what it’s really like out there.
We clutch our CUIDs and giggle as we walk past the security guard at East Campus. We garner a few wary stares from wandering upperclassmen as we stand outside the door, adjusting our dresses, running our fingers through our hair, and waiting for our divine savior. The door opens, spilling majestic light and smoke around His silhouette—that guy who advised the friend of that girl on our hall whose name starts with an “S,” we think.
Yes, we are freshmen. Yes, we are going to a frat party on our first night at Columbia. And, yes, we do think that we’re the coolest shit ever.
After a day of playing the roles of little lost NSOP sheep who submissively bleat out “Roar, Lion, Roar,” the plunging necklines and high heels emerge. Our true assimilation into the Columbia culture occurs only with the help of alcohol, so we over-excitedly plan a trip to the frat party. As we walk up the stairs, the music swells. The smell of weed intensifies. Our savior tells us to get drunk and dance, and we willingly obey.
Jungle juice in hand, we form small groups. A creepy older guy continues to ask for “just one dance,” though none of us oblige him. We drink enough of the unidentifiable drinks and shots to feel drunk, but then the alcohol runs out. Wait, only one frat brother and one freshman have jumped up on the bar to grind together? Why does this music not have a beat? Where are all of the hot guys? Where is the freaking keg?
We glance around, unsure, still bopping to the lame music. Is this really what college is like?
Time for Plan B—The Heights, where we manage to get in with boobs and without fakes. It’s late Monday night, and some wrestlers talk to us. We take a few shots of tequila. A few upperclassmen flirt with us. We take a picture with the bar in the background to show how cool we are to our friends back home. Then, we leave, sinking into our beds at 3 a.m.
As we wake up and head to an academic assembly, we sigh at our disappointing night and hope that the Fates have destined us for bigger and better parties.
Yes, we’re freshmen. Yes, we went to a frat party on our first night at Columbia. And, yes, we’re aware that we’re the lamest shit ever.