THE "WE ARE" CULT

A Relevant Retrospect on the Penn State Culture

My former, beloved Penn Staters en route home from a glorious Nittany Lions win

State College, PA, 2008-- After attending a long week of classes at Penn State, out for another Friday on the “town,” I occasionally stop, look around, and realize what I am participating in. Prowling, subservient, beer-hungry frat brothers seem to be cornering me from every angle. Wretched, profane, and just plain obnoxious rap songs overwhelm my ears. Girls desperate for attention with stick-straight hair, impractical six-inch heels and decked out in tacky, revealing tank tops surround me. Flashing strobe lights. The walls are closing in. I realize I MUST GET OUT.

Upon my acceptance, and in the midst of choosing a college to attend, Penn State was introduced to me as a “party school” (ranked second in the nation, to be exact).  I’m not sure what I expected, but I certainly expected a little more depth in the student population, as far as intellect goes. I entered the school knowing I would be starting over, a full eight hours from Boston and void of a known contact for miles (... and miles) of farmland. This includes what I constantly find myself longing for: an established upperclassman acquaintance with some sort of an apartment, and a valid ID. One cannot always have their way, I presume.

So, as freshman life goes, I pace around the bus stop with about 100 other anxious Nittany Lions and wait to embark on that claustrophobic bus ride filled with elated “WE ARE!” chants into the dark and depressingly predictable Friday night State College scene.

After following the sprawling mass of crowds down College, Beaver, Allen, and Fairmont Ave, a few of my pals and I arrive at our intended scene. “Who are you with?” yells the underclassman pledge, who is vigilantly guarding the doors as if inside presents some euphoric palace of privilege reserved exclusively for those desiring a raunchy dance or a cheap beer. The pledge, who is dressed like he is working a 4 to 11 p.m. shift at Hollister, is clearly taking his limited means of “authority” to an extreme.

I have about as much respect for this fraternity brother as I did my high school gym teacher. Although my thoughts and presumptions of these “brothers” seem to differ from most of my fellow (seemingly blind-slighted) peers, how can one take a pledge seriously? The pledge process is an infamously pathetic and demeaning one, open to all desperate and insecure Penn State men.. or boys.. eager to proudly identify themselves with Greek lettering. These fraternal entities thrive off of large, alcohol-induced parties. They obsess over the supposed exclusivity of their scene, and only allow in and offer beers to the best looking girls and ass-kissing brothers. When I look at Mr. Hollister, my mind flashes to the next morning, where he’s being forced to drop down for 40 pushups, after shamelessly scrubbing up last night’s puke-drenched bathrooms.

All this in mind, my girlfriends and I throw out the names of a few vague acquaintances belonging to the fraternity, and after a long and chaotic process, we’re IN. We make our way to the dance floor and start groovin’. Through the mist, the strobe lights, and the unbearably loud music, guys check us out, and for that matter, so do the girls. Everyone looks around at each other in a condescending haze, secretly wondering if they’re beloved sex appeal is emanating at its fullest force.

A guy, sweaty and all smiles, approaches and begins to dance with me. I go along with it, because as much as I despise the routine humdrum of the night, I can’t deny that I am just another part of this Penn State phenomenon. He tries to say something to me, but I just can’t decipher his words through the noise. Well-- I am not particularly sure whether I truly cannot hear him, I don’t really want to hear him, or I already know what he has to say. We dance on as I conjure up a reasonable excuse to avoid any further involvement, considering his efforts would most likely be in vain. He probably wouldn’t have much time for me anyways, being relentlessly hazed makes for quite a consuming and committed social life.

Eventually, we somehow manage to gather up the crew and make our way back onto the chaotic streets of State College. With our hearing finally restored, we recognize the very familiar, albeit especially sloppy, “WE ARE” chants. Ah, nothing like some fresh air.

Now, I realize that I put myself in this situation and that no one forces me to attend any of these parties. But in the haze of the night, I do enjoy myself in the presence of my friends. Though our level of intoxication may exceed “in moderation,” we usually return to our dorms and awake the next morning with a few good stories to tell that make for good memories and serve up some solid laughs.

But the cynic in me is constantly reflecting on my life, my surroundings, and my generation as a whole. I often try to remove myself from a situation and seriously dissect and observe just where the hell I’ve landed myself. A typical night at Penn State is fun, but it lacks the vital and traditional values I was raised to embrace. I was eager to come to college and develop relationships, meet new and interesting people, broaden my knowledge, and to expand and mature from my experiences.

For the insane amount of people brought together by a Penn State fraternity bash, there is an extreme lack of communication lurking at these soirées. The whole party is predicated upon outward appearances and physical demeanor. A typical conversation has been eroded down to a few belligerent words exchanged over blaring music, usually consisting of “let’s go to my room” or “so are you in Tri-Delt or Theta?” In this new era of instant gratification, the party scene at Penn State seems to exemplify the dominance of conversation controlled by informal text messaging and sloppy facebook-ing. The scene only emphasizes my generations lost will and ability to engage in an interesting, intellectual and personal conversation.

On my arrival back to the dorm at the end of the night, I conclude that I’ve gained virtually nothing. No new contacts or relationships of any substance that call for a further encounter. The only real resonance seems to be in the form of calories from a few Natty Ices, which, at the incessancy of my meager college budget, have completely replaced my cherished repertoire of pinot grigios and Tanqueray and tonics.

And so, as I doze off into a deep Saturday morning sleep in hopes of gaining a much needed sense of tranquility, I am, not surprisingly, awoken around 10 a.m. to an overly ecstatic football crowd on route to Beaver Stadium chanting outside of my dorm room window: “WE ARE—PENN STATE!” We sure are-- whatever the hell that means.

Beaver Stadium White Out, Fall 2008

This essay was written in 2008 for a PSU honors English course. The assignment was to pen a David Sedaris-style "satirical essay" that pokes and probes around a theme and provides, at the end, a moment of “epiphany” and self-knowledge that bathes both the reader and speaker in humility and self-knowledge.