Pan(hell)enic
A sorority girl’s odyssey
By Elika Khosravani
Chorus: Sing to me of the woman, the heroine who rose to the heights of her sorority’s convention. Many wonders of women she met, many foes and fears she faced, as she survived the scourges suffered that fateful July weekend. Relish in our heroine’s tale, Muse: the newly discovered daughter of Dallas. Start from where you will—from the mouth of the convention’s trail to its devilish descent.
I have been dispatched from New York to Dallas as my sorority chapter’s representative at our annual convention. Heat-dazed in the hotel lobby, I am greeted with a sash of sorts: plastic red and green flowers draped around my neck to represent our symbol. How ambassadorial!
I attempt to drag my suitcase toward the check-in desk, only to discover that somewhere along the journey from New York, one of its four wheels jumped ship. It tilts violently to one side, lurching me into a nosedive across the marble floor. Gosh, I hope my nose is alright. I only had the rhinoplasty plaster removed a few weeks ago, and my insurance hasn’t even been processed yet.
“Well, hi there, sweetheart!” The Southern drawl of the receptionist startles me from my star-fish sprawl. Amidst much subtly disguised difficulty, I eventually stand up and locate her nametag, a dark rectangle lost in the wine-dark sea of her purple pantsuit: Kelleigh-Anne. Kelleigh-Anne’s smile is taut as a tightrope, stretched across her face as if screwed on. “Ready to check in?”
Her acrylic nails click slowly against the cold countertop as she asks for my identification and credit card. I rummage through my purse and, thankfully, find my battered passport almost immediately. Kelleigh-Anne picks it up daintily between her thumb and pointer finger, combing through its pages with the tips of her stiletto-bladed claws. Then I dig into my wallet: my credit card is not there. I empty out my entire bag onto the floor (Kelleigh-Anne is NOT amused), and chills crawl down my spine as I accept this devastating loss. The horrors persist. I reluctantly put down daddy’s emergency card; she scans it while I spiral in shame.
Kelleigh-Anne hands over my room card, along with a map. To reach my quarters in the Center Wing on the 13th floor, I must first navigate the hotel’s four golden towers: North, East, South, and West. Alas, only one will deliver me to my lodgings—and Kelleigh-Anne does not remember which. With a dismissive shoo of her hand, she sends me on my journey.
After losing a small piece of my soul to a never-ending loop of elevator trips, I put my fate in the hands of the North elevator. Huzzah! The gleaming “Center Wing” plaque winks at me as I step out, schlepping my three-wheeled suitcase behind me. I wander down the winding hallways, the wailing whimpers of innocent souls chiming in my stead. Shake those negative-Nancy thoughts away, girl: it might just be ambience music. Hopefully my lorazepam starts kicking in soon!
Chorus: Lyre, lyre, pants on fire! Here our Heroine stands at the Crossroad of Collegiate Camaraderie, the Kingdom of Kinship, the Footstep of Fealty, fruitful as the red and green blooming through her veins. A saccharine slumber kisses her asleep, fiending over the festivities tomorrow morn’ shall hold.
In a hum of morning hunger, I blindly follow the blonde brigade headed toward breakfast. Breakfast, it turns out, does not entail any food. It is not sustenance for the body but rather for the soul: a pre-professional panel about the power of networking. The moderator makes direct eye contact with me and bestows upon me the title of “Girlboss.” I begin to wonder whether I am the Dallas Darling that has been prophesied.
Swarmed by skinny Southern Belles, I sigh in relief when I finally get my grubby little fingers on a half-bitten bagel. Everyone here seems to know somebody, and oh, I sure do feel a lashing of loneliness in the Lone Star State. Luckily, I get befriended by a posse of sociable brunettes—fellow minorities—who walk with me toward our next ceremony: the utmost sacred ritual of our sorority.
To get there, we follow the sound of flesh-toned shoes, the sharp smack of their heels like the hooves of hell pounding down the hall. Elderly alumni sisters ferry us down the escalator. Sunlight slowly disappears behind us, floor by floor, until we reach rock bottom, arriving before a set of looming doors. A final warning glows above them: “All hope abandon, ye who enter in.”
From somewhere beyond the doors buzzes a litany of words—
***, *** ******** * ******** ********, **** **** ********** **** *** ********* ********. *** ** * ********* ****** ** ******. ** , * **** **** **** ******** *** ** *** * ******
—our ritual, rendered a mystery by the ancient laws of sorority confidentiality. I valiantly cross the threshold of tradition, making my way into the hall of woe to linger among the lost souls of sisterhood.
Upon arrival, a white-robed alumna presents me with the sacred Book of Names, gesturing toward the open page. She pricks her feather quill into my wrist, tip inked in crimson, and invites me to sign my name in blood. Just like that, I am spirited away.
Chorus: Hear, hear: the call of sisterhood beguiling our brave Barnumbian heroine, yet she holds her tongue. Speak, little lady, for as we stand at the crown jewel of the Dallas Sheraton Ballroom Level B3, we hear a willowing voice weeping from within, and we shudder, young heroine, at the sorrows of sisterhood, for it hath shattered thy strained spirit.
I succumb.
I am line-dancing with the best of them, having a merry little time, caught in a web of cowboy cacophonies. The music grows feverishly frenzied as I twirl around, the ballroom spinning faster and faster until red and green venerate my vision. I am stopped in my cupid-shuffling tracks when I catch a glimpse of my new girl-friends… or rather, ghoul-friends.
Around me, the blondes’ faces warp, their skin sagging and spines rippling beneath white satin dresses. Their bones bend backwards, crackling necks elongating as their golden heads graze the floor. When they jerk upright again, their once-silken hair hangs in leather-like locks. Bloodshot eyes swell in their sockets. From their shoulders burst brittle wings, manicured fingers lengthen into talons, and forked tongues slip between rows of yellowing fans. These are no longer my sisters, but a squad of sororal demons, circling closer as the ballroom slowly slackens beneath us. The gates of hell split open, and from somewhere below I hear a chorus of infernal chanting.
These fake-blonde—perhaps the greatest offense of all—banshees hiss my name as their acrylic claws reach for me. Aww, is that Kelligh-Anne? I try to wave hello, but their fire-flicking tongues coil around my ankles, dragging me down the hellish descent. My nose smacks the ground, blood gushing–those bitches! I knew they were jealous of my nose. Trying to sacrifice me is fine, but this? This is a step too far, and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I swing my fist, but the panhellenic hellspawn outnumber me, batting away my weak blows. As my last breath leaves my lungs, I am swallowed whole by sisterhood. Goodbye, cruel world.
Chorus: Do not worry, dear reader, for our bold, beautiful Barnumbian heroine hath survived the descent into the underworld—though perhaps her sound judgement did not. Our heroine’s little trip to hell was more pharmaceutical than supernatural. Wink wink. As a Pisces, she was promptly whisked away to a wellness rehabilitation facility for an entire moon cycle. Yet fear not, dear reader, for as we speak, our heroine hath risen from the ashes and now sits beneath the fluorescent lights of a Soho salon, surrendering what remains of her sanity to a bleach-blonde appointment. Yeehaw!
