Added: Angila Ammerman - Date: 22.09.2021 10:02 - Views: 22218 - Clicks: 2674
The week was bad enough. Sleep deprivation, long nightly walks back to campus, cleaning toilets, scrubbing sidewalks with toothbrushes, polishing shoes of the "actives," whose continual browbeating, name-calling and condescending ground us down. People I respected turned nasty. After Saturday morning work detail, the pledge master told us to report back that night at p. In the midst of the Kavanaugh hearing, and in the broader context of the MeToo era, people accused of sexual assault and their supporters routinely challenge the veracity of decades-long recollections by purported victims.
How likely is one traumatized by an event able to recall sufficient details to portray what really happened? Ask a woman battered by her husband, molested by a parent, or an altar boy assaulted by his priest. Many victims carry vivid images of their ordeal for a lifetime. They'd be glad to forget.
My story about that night some six decades ago pales by comparison to the tragedies so widespread today. I offer it in part to empathize with those less fortunate. Fraternity hell week stories started writing with Tim's death still fresh in my mind, in part because in the late s, at age 40 I spent a sabbatical year at Penn State, retraining as a petroleum engineer. Although I had nothing to do with fraternities, their reputation for alcoholic-infused antics was common knowledge.
But my interest in the Atlantic articles and the NPR interview was kindled by amore personal experience during my freshman year at Marietta College, a small liberal arts school in Ohio. Inalong with a dozen or so classmates, I had pledged Alpha Sigma Phi fraternity. We were in the final stage of Hell Week, the aptly named hazing period. That evening, they blindfold us pledges for the drive to the "sacred site.
Guided down a dirt path toward voices in the distance, I stumble on a rock, but keep my balance. The voices turn to whispers. Must be actives. Someone shines a flashlight under my blindfold. The pledge master speaks. You'll walk to three performance stations. Leader one, take your group to the log.
Leader two, the creek. Leader three, the hill. I'm in a movie with a bad script, scared, afraid of stumbling, worried about what lies ahead. Voices from the other two groups trail off. Finally, our leader speaks. This is station two, the creek. Johnson, you're first. Then silence. Glad I'm not first.
The actives have formed two lines. You crawl between them down a bank into a shallow creek, then turn around and crawl back. Any questions? Amid the actives shouting, I hear whacks. Johnson yells, "Ouch. They curse louder. Johnson moans, then splashes into the water. The yelling turns to laughter. But he can't. A quiet guy in my math class and chem lab who had a hard week. I don't see him as a fraternity type. The moans get louder, from both Johnson and Franklin.
My heart thumps. Someone pushes me forward.
You know the rules: down the bank, into the water, then back. Ready, crawl. I drop to my knees and edge forward. Shoes on each side kick at me. A quitter. I concentrate on balance.
Someone whips my butt, hard. Feels like rope. Later I learn it's a length of garden hose. Stings like hell. I yelp. They holler louder. I scramble downward, bumping through knees and feet. My palms feel every rock and root. The whips come faster. I smell beer on his breath when someone leans close to taunt me. I can't help whining.
One lash wraps around and catches my stomach. I scream, "Ouch, damn it! My hands find the water's edge. I lunge forward, hoping to stop the whipping, but they keep it up until the leader says, "OK, Murtha, turn around. I want to jump up.
Rip off the blindfold.
Grab their whip. Beat them. I slip on the creek bottom. My face plunges into cold, muddy water, gagging me. I stand and wade toward the voices at the shoreline. I scramble up the slippery bank. Legs kick me. I want to grab one and twist. Make the scum fall. I crawl faster. Whips rain down. I stand, soaked, dripping. My butt burns. I feel a welt beneath my ribcage.
I shake. Not cold. I recognize two voices. One, a guy I admired, surprises me with his viciousness. They're all sadists. Silently, I call them every cuss word I know. Did these guys look forward to beating us? Who invented this crap? Why do they propagate it? Do I want to call this scum "brothers"? I barely hear the next two pledges struggle through the ritual.
The last one is Franklin. He freaks out, crying, screaming, splashing into the water, begging them to stop. They drag him up the bank and drop him next to me.
He can't stop sobbing and moaning. They call him names. I stifle a yell and mutter under my breath. Someone pushes me along. I hate leaving Franklin. The hill is next. We scramble up a slippery, muddy slope while they whip us. Some blows hit my thighs and calves. I grunt and fight back tears. We come to the final station.
In front of you is a big log named Gracie. You mount her and screw her hard. I straddle the log, lean forward. The blows begin. I yell "Gracie" as loud as I can to disregard the pain. My butt throbs. Shifting positions chafes my inner thighs.Fraternity hell week stories
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10 Horrible Tales of College Hazing