She Was A DG. Still Is.

Did I ever tell you the story about how I ended up a sorority girl? Might seem like an obvious fit to those of you who know and love me for the cheerleading, pink wearing, glossy lipped girly girl that I am, but it actually was a bit of a tough sell.

I went away to college my freshman year at BGSU with my high school boyfriend back at Ohio State, and my high school best friend as a roommate. The idea of rushing a sorority never really crossed my mind. Didn’t need it. I knew my parents had both been Greek, and had good experiences, but neither of them are really “glory days” kind of people so I never heard much about it.

By the end of my freshman year, I was clinging desperately to that high school boyfriend and my high school best friend was staying home to have what would become one of the most beautiful little baby girls you could ever hope to see. And my father, my quiet, unassuming, not really all that bossy father, made a decision. He was sending me back to school -- a week early, no less -- to go through Rush. I was flabbergasted, to say the least. I think my dad’s only “made” me do like six things in my life, if you count stuff like homework and bathing as a collective whole. I was piiiiiissed. Going back to school a week early meant another week away from Scott, another week away from Lee, another week longer at a school I wasn’t really all that connected to in the first place. (Smart, smart daddy.) So we had our third fight ever, he promised me he didn’t care at all if I actually pledged as long as I gave the experience and myself a chance, and I went.

My memories of the week are a little vague (it was a long time ago, and a fuzzy time at that). I remember meeting a lot of girls, some I really liked, some not so much, and neither of those seemed determined by which house they were in. Of course the sororities had reputations, stereotypes attached, and most of those were actually pretty right on. Like the insecure eighteen year old I was, I liked the popular houses, full of pretty girls. I was fascinated by the girl who walked in front of me to “Formal Desserts” one afternoon, who was the tiniest little person I’d ever seen with the biggest mess of beautiful blond curls. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how her frame held all that up. I felt intimidated by the most idealistic sorority girl you could ever conjure up, who led me through my favorite house: petite, very blonde, huge blue eyes, sweet demeanor and just plain perky. That wasn’t really the part that intimidated me though -- it was looking at this sweet little person and realizing she was smart as hell. I mean, seriously smarter than me. And I promise, she’s smarter than you. I listened to stories about how Rush meant looking for your roommate, your best friend, your bridesmaid, and that’s how you’d know you were in the right place. (Side note: both of those girls stood beside me at my own wedding a few years later.) I was feeling a strange pull toward this particular house, but still very unsure about the whole thing.

And then I met Tara.

Should you be picturing an entire sorority house full of skinny towheads -- of which I am neither -- let me introduce you to Tara as I met her. It was one of the final days of Rush, meaning the girls were making decisions on both sides. I really liked this sorority. It was big, and popular on campus (for the right reasons), seemed to have an incredibly diverse group of sickeningly gorgeous women who also happened to be brainy, sporty, artistic, involved and funny. But I still for the life of me couldn’t imagine myself in this scenario. Tara took me through the last party, and I was hooked. She was like a secret weapon -- there was no meeting her, spending time with her, without wanting to be a part of whatever she was doing. She had this crazy, wild dark curly hair, all the way down her back. She was small (of course) but somehow managed to take up the whole room. Huge grin covered in dark red lipstick. And you could just tell she was trouble. I mean, like, the best kind of trouble. She laughed, all the time and always out loud. She sang and danced and moved constantly, even if it was a “formal” event and she was the only one doing it. No one seemed to mind. And just as I left the house, feeling really frightened because all of a sudden I wanted something really badly and had no idea if the feeling was mutual, she grabbed me by the shoulders, gave me a huge bear hug, and whispered, “I better fucking see you here tomorrow!” in my ear.

And just like that, I was a Delta Gamma.

That meant, for the next three years, I always had a party to go to, always had people to smile at and talk to on campus and in classes, had a level of prestige that just came with being part of a very elite little club. It wasn’t perfect, come on. I never lived in the house, because I struggled with some major body issues and worried what would happen to me if I was living with fifty girls who were way too skinny and were struggling, oftentimes in the least healthy of ways, with their own body images. You can’t collect over a hundred girls together and expect them all to be best friends. Some of my sisters I adored, some I barely knew, and some really got on my fucking nerves. Sisters. We sang goofy songs and went on spring breaks and fell in love and out and in and out and plopped anchors on every flat surface and gossiped and graduated. Most of them I didn’t talk to for years, and the beauty of Facebook is that I got to find so many of them again, hear what adventures they’d found, see their children, discover that these amazing girls had become the most fascinating of women.

A few months ago, our little social media world started buzzing with talk that Tara was ill. She’d lived the hard life of an artist -- an unbelievably, take-your-breath away kind of talented artist -- and it had taken its toll on her. Her organs were shutting down and she was fighting for her life. And more so than since the day I put that silly, stupid sailor hat on my head, I learned what it means to be in a sorority. Laugh if you want, don’t get it if you can’t, but this is serious stuff. This band of women has, without blinking, without questioning or hesitating or stalling, joined together in prayer and story-telling and love of one another in a way that has brought me to tears in the past two weeks more times than I can count. We’ve posted old pictures of our best days and our worst fashion choices. We’ve reconnected. I won’t pretend that Tara and I stayed close; that would be a disservice to those women who have been with her all this time, watching her, living with her, coping with the impossible task of having someone they love give in to addiction. But Tara and I stayed sisters. We all did.

I wish this had a happier, more sororityish ending. But it doesn’t. Tomorrow I’ll see a lot of my sisters for the first time since I graduated at Tara’s funeral. It doesn’t seem real and it’s certainly not right. I’ll hug my friends and cry for their loss and be reminded that, even as an insecure eighteen year old, I made exactly the right decision.

I am a Delta Gamma. Love in the Bonds of Sisterhood.



Tara Lynne Scare, 10/23/74 - 04/03/10