When I was selected by the WUnderground editorial board to rush and subsequently write a review of new fraternity Delta Chi, I was worried about the task for two reasons. First, I was worried I wouldn’t be dope enough for them—I think beer tastes bad and have never even attempted to surf. Second, and I don’t take this lightly, there is a solid, solid chance that Delta Chi does not exist.
I first entered their “house” (Simon 020) on a Wednesday at 12:30 pm. They excitedly told me that to set themselves apart from other frats on campus, they were making their open rush events mixers. Initially, I was confused, because there were only four guys in the room sitting six chairs apart from each other. However, things started to clear up when I saw them repeatedly transferring cups of apple juice into cups of orange juice, only for the process to begin again as the orange juice cascaded into its original receptacle. The brothers stared, transfixed, as the mixture coalesced into one.
I tried to explain to them what a “mixer” actually entailed, but I was interrupted by Sophomore Clyde Klide, who shouted “I AM SO FUCKING BOINGO’D” and inexplicably booted all over the floor. First year Mike Annike cried out “Oh God, I don’t wanna die.” Feeling confused and overwhelmed, I left the room, and the janitor asked me if the noises “were Delta Chi again.”
The next morning, I heard a knock on my dorm room door. I answered it and saw a poorly ripped scrap of paper at my feet and one kid scurrying away (I at no point gave them my dorm room number). The paper read “you’re so hot + chill. Please come to our first closed event? Please.”
In the name of journalistic integrity, I had no choice but to go. We all hopped in a KIA Soul and drove to Denny’s. They told me I could only order one appetizer, and even then I’d have to split it. Clearly, they have yet to be greenlit for funding. Before our calamari even arrived, they collectively yelled “Book it, it’s the 12!” even though both the parking lot and restaurant were completely empty.
On the way back, the Kia Soul broke down. We tried to call an Uber, but all of their phones were somehow dead. I suggested we call AAA, but one of the Delta Chis suggested the car was clearly stolen property. While hitchhiking back along Forsyth, one of the brothers looked me dead in the eye and said, “Jonah, we’re gonna give it to you straight: you got a bid. Now can I borrow $10? I need to call my lawyer from this payphone up ahead.” I then watched in silence as Jake crumpled the $10 bill and tried and failed repeatedly to shove it in the coin slot of the long-defunct payphone, saying “just like last night, man!” and going in for a hi-five. I am not at liberty to say whether or not I accepted.
We got back to the 40 at 3 am. My arms were sore from hitchhiking, and all of the brothers were sopping wet, even though it wasn’t raining. Three days later, the President called me to inform me that Delta Chi has been put on indefinite social probation because none of the brothers technically “go here.” He then, once again, asked me for $10, this time “in change preferably.”
All that being said, Delta Chi is sick; you should totally rush.