KWC Part 2: Rush

Rush. According to Google, rush referred to the practice of fraternities "rushing" to the train station to meet the members of a college’s freshman class and pinning their fraternity colors on the freshmen to identify them as potential members of that fraternity. OK, that sounds possible.

If I remember correctly (and that’s a big “if”), I checked a box somewhere saying I was interested in joining a fraternity, and a few weeks later, I got invited to a mixer hosted by each fraternity at KWC. These mixers were a chance for me to get to know the people in each fraternity and learn a little about them, and for them to get to know a little about me.

KWC has three fraternities: Sigma Nu (we called them the Snakes), Sigma Phi Epsilon (the Sig Eps), and Sigma Alpha Mu (the Sammies). I remember nothing about the Sigma Nu and Sig Ep mixers, just that I went to them. If you were rushing, you had to go to all three mixers, or you would have to wait until open rush later on in the semester.

I remember the Sigma Alpha Mu mixer because I was late getting back from Lexington and got there just as it was wrapping up. The Sammie mixer was held at a big beige Victorian house on Fredricka Street near Brescia College, and the national rep from Sigma Alpha Mu seemed, um, odd. There was nothing particularly weird or off-putting about him, but even after all these years, the chief memory I have of the entire 15 or so minutes I was there was the guy's ears. They looked artificial, or wrong-side-out, or both. Maybe they were. I seriously don’t remember anything else about that meeting, and I don’t remember anyone else I met there. I’m pretty sure that’s why I didn’t get a bid from the Sammies—they didn’t remember me either.

After the official mixers, the fraternities might invite you to a more informal gathering. Again, I didn’t hear from the Sammies, but Sigma Nu invited me to a kegger at Miller’s Lake, and the Sig Eps invited me to their floor in the Fraternity Men’s Dorm (FMD) to watch Apocalypse Now.

Miller’s Lake was a sort of fishing resort about 10 miles outside of Owensboro, with a few cabins and a few ponds (calling them lakes was more than generous). I’m not sure if anyone ever fished there, but it was a good place to rent a cabin and have a party without running afoul of campus rules. They closed in 1987, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t our fault—KWC’s Greek organizations may have been the only thing that kept them afloat.

Anthony and I drove out to the lakes in his bitchin’ blue Chevy Chevette and joined the party. We were introduced around and made to feel welcome, then mostly ignored. I mean, we didn’t really know anyone there, and they were mostly already established in the fraternity. They played quarters or cards, smoked, joked, and danced, and we hovered. We knew each other and maybe one or two other guys, but that was it. What we did know, much to my later chagrin, was beer—how to drink it, how to drink way too much of it, and how not to stop.

I remember being bored and ignored, and having drunk enough beer from a red Solo cup that my lips started to go numb, and thinking that I’d had enough beer and maybe of everything. And then, as I was refilling my cup for just one more, thankyouverymuch, the tap convinced me that the distance to the cup was ever so much a waste of time and that I should cut out the middle man and just squirt the beer directly from the tap into my mouth, and wouldn’t that just be grand. So I did, and those around me either laughed or gasped or looked away, and I did not stop.

Until. Someone with empathy and awareness, maybe someone who didn’t drink at all, probably a senior, saw me heading down a dark road and took the tap from my hand. I don’t remember his name (Gary is floating around my brain as I write this, but that’s probably just a figment), but he and a couple of others guided me up the hill behind the cabin, and he told me to stick my fingers down my throat and throw up. I was stubborn. I was as belligerent as a 120-pound drunk 18-year-old could be.

“Do it, or I’ll do it for you.”

Sternly. “Stick your fingers down your throat. You have to puke.”

Finally, after arguing and sputtering and tearful apologies, I gagged myself into a flood of regret.

Time passed, and Anthony dragged me into Catawampus (that’s what he called the Chevette) and left, drunkenly driving the winding road back to campus. The saints of stupid freshmen were with us, and we made it back without incident, but by the time we made it to our room in Kendall Hall, the reappearance of all that beer was assured. I dimly remember sitting on my bed and pointing. Anthony didn’t know what I was pointing at, but I did, and at that stage, all I could do was point.

My brain was screaming as the torrent rose. “The wastebasket! The wastebasket! Are you stupid? The wastebasket!”

Anthony said something about my shoes. I managed, “I don’t care about my shoes!” as the floodgates opened.

Into. The wicker. Wastebasket.

© 2026, Brian G Parker