Revised March 2021

I stood among twenty-four other fraternity pledges the night before our initiation into Sig Gamma Phi Fraternity on the final day of Hell Week, the grueling, week-long test of learned pledging activities and traditions. The brothers told us that the purpose of Hell Week was for us to prove our worthiness of brotherhood by showing them that we had learned their customs, that we were one of them, but we had heard the rumors and we knew that this was their time to inflict on us the same sado-masochistic hazing that was once inflicted on them.

“Pledge President!” screamed one of the Hell Masters. “In your own words, why do you want to be a Sig Phi?” I froze, reflecting on the question, knowing they expected me to regurgitate the memorized answer, “Brotherhood.” But in that moment of reflection, for the first time in the pledging process, I questioned deeply whether I still wanted to become a Sig Phi.

“Pledge President! Are you hearing the words that are coming out of my mouth?!” screamed the Hell Master again, bringing my attention back to the room.

“Sir, Brotherhood, sir,” I replied correctly to move the meeting along.

“Ding, ding, ding! Brotherhood is correct. Now snap into Form B!”

And so we did snap into Form B, one of the several calisthenic formations for our lineups designed to further exhaust our bodies. We stood in formation along the four walls of a room on the third-floor of the fraternity house, malnourished, dehydrated, squatting with our backs against the walls,hands stretched out in front parallel to the floor, standing shoulder to shoulder, wearing nothing but tall, black, kitchen trash bags.

By the last day of Hell Week, our trash bags had become tattered, sticky, odorous. One would think that one would become adapted to the odors in the room, but we never did get used to the smell. The foul odors produced in the room were made worse due to the fact that the room had no windows and little ventilation. Looking up at the ceiling, I saw condensated sweat (and probably a few tears) dripping from the ceiling right back onto our sweating bodies. We had recreated a veritable Water Cycle within the room. Due to the humidity in the room and the sweat-locked trash bags adorning our bodies, the majority of us contracted folliculitis, an infection of the skin pores that ached and oozed from our thighs, buttocks, and backs. The Hell Masters did pass around a cup of water for us to drink, but one pledge had a nasty cold, so to drink this communal cup of water was to infect yourself, which we all did with reluctance because we were thoroughly parched.

Even without clean water, performing Form B was a relief from time spent in the Fun Room, a small, walk-in closet inside the main room measuring 4’8’. With twenty-five pledges locked in the closet, we truly did feel, “packed like sardines.” Unlike the main room, the closet had zero ventilation, which made breathing hot and laborious. The Fun Room triggered more than one panic attack among the more claustrophobic pledges, who we ushered to the front of the closet so that they could breathe more easily through the crack in the door.

Not only was time in the Fun Room a physical struggle, it was psychologically trying. Periodically one of the Hell Masters would toss a box of 2,300 assorted, color-coded Pony Beads into the closet, scattering them across the floor. We were locked in the closet until we had sorted all 2,300 beads by color, which we learned to do with assembly-line efficiency to get out of the Fun Room as soon as possible. Since there was a sliver of light beneath the door, sorting took place in the front of the closet and the rest of the pledges were responsible for collecting beads off the sweat-soaked linoleum floor and passing them to the sorters at the front.

Though we were starving, dehydrated, and fatigued, what wore us down the most was the sleep deprivation. When the final meeting of the night concluded around 2AM and the Hell Masters went to their beds, music blared outside our locked door, making it all but impossible to get any sleep until we rose at 7AM. To my amazement, some pledges actually managed to get a few hours of sleep despite the loud music and tight sleeping quarters. As I listened to these lucky few pledge brothers drift off to sleep, I lay awake in anticipation of the initiation ceremony, wondering to myself whether the sacrifice would be worth it in the end.

I write this essay after having been away from fraternity life for two years. I transferred to another university at the end of my sophomore year because my father called me during finals week and told me that if I didn’t want to pay for school, I would have to transfer to a state university. The thought of leaving my newfound friends behind was disheartening, but at the time, I simply wasn’t in the position to pay for private school tuition on my own, so I did what was necessary and transferred.

From an outside perspective, it is easy to write off the hazing traditions described here as simple abuse, and anyone who took Psych 101 could tell you that the pledges that would do anything to make it into the fraternity exhibit textbook symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome, and they might not be wrong. Certainly, there are fraternity members that fail to emulate the ideals of the fraternity, especially those that see hazing as an end in itself and take the exercises a bridge too far. But then there are those who understand that hazing is only a means to an end, a process through which they desire to cultivate greater pride, unity, and respect among each other. Perhaps this desired outcome does not have to be born out of tall, black, kitchen trash bags or a box of 2,300 Pony beads, but without the struggle for accomplishment and the pride of earning the respect of your brothers in the end, why would you want to become a Sig Phi?

Jordan Ehring graduated cum laude with a degree in English Literature in December 2016. He enjoys skateboarding, lifting weights, learning languages, drinking coffee, and reading. He plans to attend law school in 2018.