The New First Family of the Fraternity

The Fraternity elected its new executive board this week, and, like the United States, our chapter’s president will be black for the first time in its 30 years of existence.

Our new president, who bears a striking resemblance to Lights Out, and therefore has been donned with the moniker Shawne Merriman, is finishing up his sophomore year and pledged under my tutelage last semester. I missed the elections, due to work, and heard of the outcome from my roommate, Wyles.

Wyles, who is also black, jokingly said he would play “My President is Black” by Young Jeezy at our next event to celebrate Merriman’s election. The Fraternity currently has five black members, and are a decided minority in our community. Last night, at a pre-drink before the bars, I was with Wyles and another member of the “Fraternity Black Caucus,” as they are affectionately known, discussing our chapter’s election and its parallels to President Obama’s. Richard, so nicknamed here because of his unfortunate surname, one-upped Wyles and boasted he was producing tee-shirts bearing Merriman’s face and the word “Change” in bold letters. We all had a laugh as the girls started to roll into the basement.

Shortly there after, I was out on the porch having a cigarette when Merriman strolled up the steps. I congratulated him before running downstairs to cue up the music to welcome him to the party. As the music played, Merriman sheepishly grinned as Wyles and Richard comically strutted and danced around him. I joined in on the fun, shotgunned a beer with all and, shortly thereafter, left for a night at the bar.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the celebratory dance-off that would have made LeBron James proud as I lay in bed last night. They didn’t do it to show up the fair-skinned brothers who lost, or to make a statement about race. Rather, they were rejoicing with a member of their “club” who had achieved a tremendous honor and laughing at the timing that so perfectly coordinated with our country’s highest office. They wished not to make a spectacle of themselves, and few of the brothers in attendance even noticed the song playing and the three young men dancing in celebration.

For me though, it held some significance. While they did not set out to make a racial statement, they made one with me, one that reverberated all through the night. If one of my white brothers had been elected, we certainly would not have played Kenny Chesney and crowed about how all the girls think our tractors are sexy, but for Wyles and Richard, this was a relevant, and, in my view, appropriate celebration. They did not think the occasion dripped with importance, but one that marked a triumph nonetheless. And while I smiled and rejoiced with them at the time, I was saddened by the act later in the night.

Wyles and Richard’s actions spoke volumes. They subtlety noted to the room their differences, differences they furiously try to hide in the white-washed Greek world. But last night, they let loose and celebrated their race while nodding to the deep-rooted scars left from bigotry and racism. It is unlikely the two of them, who come from lily white suburbs of New Jersey, know first-hand much of the hardships some of their brethren are forced to live with, but they share a common bond of blackness, a bond strengthened by tales from grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends that probably left them tearful and frightened during the nights of their youth. And last night, that common bond poured out of them, and would later sweep me off my feet.

It later dawned on me how much I take for granted in my daily life, and how little my black roommate is afforded. It was a small victory, and one that they had fun poking fun at, but the fact that they did stuck with me. I’ve been moping and depressed for the better part of 2009 because of the feeble job prospects that await me, but taking part in that circle last night got me thinking about the uncertainty Wyles has probably faced every day of his life. My whole life has been privileged and in most competitions, I have had an advantage because of the hard work of my parents and its rewards. In the face of this great challenge and weak economy, I have moped and bitched, but last night, I began to wonder where I would be if I switched places with my roommate and wore his dark coat.

It scared me to think how fortunate I am, but how quick I am to despair when my fortunes run dry. My small victories have been reduced to bitterness as I cynically anticipate their inevitable turn to failure. But my roommate’s face last night got me thinking about that attitude and my pessimistic outlook on the future, and my attitude began to change. They put aside the years of torment their race has known, and even poked fun at it by celebrating another “first,” with their impromptu circle last night. They didn’t beat their chests and tout black power, but rather reveled in their shared experiences and maybe even wondered if things are finally getting better.

And I was left to ponder this: Why do I have trouble smiling after leading a life of privilege, when such a small thing can turn to joyous dancing for men who have been given so little?