After finding out I was taking a year abroad at UC Berkeley, the only thing to do was some research. Naturally, that meant binge-watching the classics: First Daughter, On My Block, Legally Blonde, Pitch Perfect, and of course, Monsters University. Now, I’m officially two months into my little escapade, and I’m here to put the rumors at rest. Here’s everything that’s sent me into a proverbial coma since my flight across the pond (ie: my pitch for a Brit in Berkeley biopic).
We originated the language!
The first time I leaned to my left and whispered in the ear of my lecture-mate that our professor was “fit,” I was met with a blank stare and a slightly confused, “I don’t think he’s seen the inside of a gym since the 1980s.” What we have here is a classic case of lost in translation.
I was told coming here that I could forget being funny because Americans wouldn’t understand British humor. I’ll put my hands up and admit that they were wrong. Sarcasm is thankfully not lost on Berkeley. In fact, it’s the very essence that runs through a Berkeley student’s veins. How else are we supposed to deal with three straight weeks of midterms?
However, what catches me out are the turns of phrases. Words like “bare,” “fit,” “peng,” “dungarees,” and even “alas” are all lost on the Yanks, and even the phrase “across the pond” was our creation and not the land of the free’s. But, fear not, for I get my own back. My favorite pastime is teaching people that when you really like someone, you can approach them and ask, “Wagwan piffting, what’s your BBM pin?” Or, another favorite of mine: that a “munter” is someone really good-looking.
But you see, there’s a caveat. As much as I want to be proud of British slang (or our ability to pair any noun with the ending “-ed” and immediately know it means being off-your-tits drunk), I have to contain myself. Berkeley has a platform called “Yik Yak,” which is essentially a campus-specific Twitter/Reddit. Be funny/controversial, and you’ll get upvoted. Your upvotes get totaled, and if you’re funny enough, you’ll find yourself climbing up the ranks.
Somehow, people have found my rambunctious ramblings funny, and I’ve landed in the first position this semester (becoming particularly infamous around campus). But such a reward (ego-booster) comes with a huge risk. Should people find my identity, I’ll be banned from all frat parties.
Side note: this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. To hide my identity, I’ve had to mask our beautifully British turns of phrases and spelling. I lose a piece of my soul every time I force myself to put a “z” in “realise.”
what do you mean I can’t drink?
Now, one thing I’d prepared myself for was the travesty of not being able to drink. I’d say I drank more last semester in honor, but that’d mean I’d come across as a functioning alcoholic, so I won’t say it. But, as a 21-year-old, I thought I’d be fine. I was wrong.
Despite the average American dad out-drinking every person I know, such a lax attitude towards alcoholism hasn’t yet trickled down into the college setting when drinking at home. Gone are the bottles of Tequila and Raspberry Smirnoff Vodka decorating our window sills. Instead, boxes of seltzers crowd the cardboard disposal. And believe me, people get drunk off of them. The average American college student puts even the most lightweight of lightweights to shame; I watched a friend chunder after two 6% seltzers. Poor form.
But when finding alcohol is like finding a needle in a haystack, I’m not sure I entirely blame them. Vodka, Tequila, and Jagermeister can usually only be found in Liquor stores that are 20 minutes too far to get in time for the motive. A trip to Tesco’s for tinnies is a long-gone and distant dream. So, where do Americans get their booze? The answer is frat parties.
Bloody Brotherhoods
When that one bloke in the club said, “The club is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room,” I’d bet my left tit he wasn’t talking about a frat party. Even compared to the best of the best flat parties in sodden St. Andrews, the average frat party finds itself on the lowest of low levels in hell. The stench of vomit hangs loosely in the air, the sticky floor ruins your only nice pair of shoes left, and a very drunk frat pledge is attempting to catch your eye but is only succeeding in giving you the look your teacher used to give when they caught you peering at your friend’s quiz answers.
Since sororities aren’t able to host parties on their property (misogynists, the lot of you), your only access to booze is through a pledge that doesn’t want to be there but opted for bar duty over a TikTok dance, or attempting to flirt with one of the brothers. In other words, it’s not looking good.
But all hope isn’t lost. A frat party failure can be rectified just by knowing a brother. Befriend a pledge, and soon enough you’ll have an all-access pass to a bathroom that isn’t filled with 15 screaming women and a lounge that boasts no more than a couch older than me, complete with an Ikea coffee table (that they put there for “ambiance”). Having a backstage pass is arguably what makes these parties tolerable, and even, on the very odd occasion, fun.
Alas, not all frats are born equal. Unspoken or not, there’s a hierarchy of the Greek houses in every American university. Ours changes weekly; “house culture,” hazing practices, and cases of SVSH all contribute to their ranking. Whether you turn up to their parties is your decision, but whether you’ll be let in is the flip side of the coin.
Bama Rush is real
I can at last confirm that yes, Bama rush is real. The screaming, the shimmies, the stroking each other’s hair, the shining smiles; it all happens. Here’s my go-to guide:
Unity day = the day you’ll visit every sorority recruiting that year. Impressions don’t matter too much. You’ll remember them as much as they’ll remember you. Be nice, compliment them, compliment the house. This is the day to look at the sorority rankings. Your opinions will change throughout the week, so this is the time to cull the ones that won’t serve you or the sorority experience you imagine for yourself.
Sisterhood day = house tour day. You’ll whittle your list down from thirteen to ten. Let the house be your influencing factor as you’ll most likely be living in it for the years to come.
Philanthropy day = charity presentations. You’ll have chopped another four off, so a maximum of six houses will call you back. Let them present their case for why their charity is the best. As the days go on, the conversation and time you spend at “parties” will get longer, so try to keep stock of who you talk to and if you get along with them. If they’re bidding for a top sorority, most girls will shed a few crocodile tears when they get the chance to talk about their opinion on that sorority’s charity, but your interviewers can smell a fake tear a mile off, so just be yourself. In my opinion, this is the most important day.
Preference night = the final decision. You’ll probably go to two parties, usually with an idea of who you’re putting on top. By this point, you’ve made connections with some of the girls, most of whom will pop up to chat or shoot you a wink from a nearby table. Some may read you poems and others will show you presentations. Keep in mind that this is what they’re told to do. Let yourself ruminate with the question, “If I turned up with a raging hangover just looking to do some work and have a debrief, which house will I want to walk in the door of?” Place that choice in your first place spot.
To be truthful, it’s all quite charming and quintessential to the American college dream. It’s not a requirement to have a successful time, but being in a sorority makes the process a whole lot easier, and your time much more exciting.
I say, take the sorority ranking seriously in jest, but it’s worth keeping it in the back of your mind. Should you want the frat party experience: the higher ranked the house is, the more invites on DoorList (the app they send out invites on) you’ll get and the more you’ll get to show off to your friends.
it’s the taking part that counts
Gits this and Greek life that. There’s only one thing that really grinds my gears about college: class decorum. Please, as a nation, explain to me why I’m not allowed to be ill. Tell me why attendance is taken and negatively impacts your grade. Tell me why people stroll in 30 minutes late to a class with no apology to the lecturer. Tell me why I actually have to wake up for my 9 a.m.
In the U.K., you can pretty much guarantee that your professor doesn’t give a toss about you. Most people don’t go to their lectures, and why would they? They’re all recorded. I once had a class of 400 students, in which by week 10, I was one of only 20 who turned up to lectures. And, as the class representative, I had to be there. Believe me, if I didn’t have to, I would’ve been happily nursing whatever flu or hangover was afflicting me that week in sunny Scotland.
But, attendance in America counts towards your grade. I have a class where 30% of my final grade is attendance-based, and if I miss more than two sessions over the semester, I automatically fail (Anthropology department, I hate you). You miss three in a row in the U.K. and the max you’ll get is a strongly worded email to your parents reminding them that your child is an adult now and must consequently do the adult thing of showing up to the class that you pay for.
If these were the kind of absences where you just really felt like getting a coffee with your friend, I think I’d understand. But, if you’re sick, ill, or injured, those absences still stack up. Find yourself with a bout of COVID-19 and you can kiss your class goodbye.
final pieces of advice:
Treat uni work like a 9-5 job because those libraries will be closed when you need them most. That’s right, most of them close at 5 p.m. and aren’t open on the weekends. I’ve yet to figure out what the weekends are actually for.
Find a friend with a kitchen. Many people haven’t quite left the nest, and thus have no idea how to fend for themselves when it comes to adulthood. Be their guiding light and show them how to boil pasta.
Yes, American football is just a long-winded version of rugby. The players are dramatic yet revered like gods. But I have to admit, the U.S. does gameday well. Let the roars of the crowd, the smell of the sticky seats, and the tingle of Tequila in your veins enchant you. After all, it’s only four hours.