When I was a freshman, I went to a lot of parties, most of which I was not invited to. The routine went like this: my friends and I would meet in someone’s room, spend an hour trying on different outfits, and then wander the streets in search of the elusive party. Along the way, our group would double or even triple as boys who saw us as their golden ticket cleaved to us. Eventually we would hear tell-tale party signs (music and noise), and as soon as the door opened, my horde of freshman friends and I would press our way inside. All the parties were the same: a polo-shirted boy would offer us red cups of flat beer, and we would exchange the vitals—“name, dorm, major”—in between rounds of beer pong.
Even then, we all knew it was lame. But we were lonely and desperate to fit in, and a high legal drinking age ensured that campus parties were our only source of alcohol-related fun. Is crashing parties tasteful? Hardly. Does it beat the hell out of sitting in your dorm and filling out transfer applications? I rest my case. Going to parties you’re not invited to is a Georgetown first-year rite of passage, right up there with hating NSO and getting ripped off by the bookstore.
While friends at large state schools reported that frats often charged entry fees to offset costs, all the parties I attended were free. I was sort of proud of this. As one particularly generous host explained, “It’s about taking care of our own. We crashed parties when we were freshman; now it’s our turn to pay it back.” His pay-it forward logic struck me as oddly chivalrous, especially for a guy in a “Kiss Me I’m Irish” t-shirt.
But upon returning to the Hilltop as a senior after a year abroad, I’ve found that things have changed—for the worse. During NSO I saw a girl standing on the steps of her townhouse, drunkenly failing her arms at a flock of freshmen on the sidewalk, screaming “disperse, disperse” as if they were rats. At a recent party, the host actually took a drink out of my friend’s hand because they “were running low.”
Frankly, I’m appalled. I don’t know if it’s the new alcohol policy (the one-keg limit means a lot less free beer for freshman) or the crappy economy (I only bought enough alcohol for my real friends!), but lately, hosts have all the friendliness of TSA interrogators.
Let’s be clear: party crashing is the social equivalent of blowing your nose on the tablecloth. However, there’s a certain measure of hypocrisy in meting out abuse to freshmen who dare venture onto our rooftops, when most of us spent our first weeks on the Hilltop gulping all the free Natty Light we could get our hands on.
Face it: nobody comes to Georgetown for its awesome party scene. (Well, maybe that one transfer from Bob Jones.) Our neighbors at GW and American know we care more about congressional internships and our future careers as McPhearson junior analysts than having fun. Since we already enjoy a reputation as a university of strivers whose mommies and daddies have said “no” to condoms and keg parties, we might as well enjoy each other. Georgetown is a bubble, but we’re all in this bubble together.
And so I propose a compromise: freshman, crash if you must, but don’t just show up empty handed. A gift for your host –-whether it’s a cake you swiped from Leo’s, some chips and dip, or a bottle of wine your big sister brought you—is just good manners. And upperclassmen, for goodness sake, let’s show some compassion! It wasn’t that long ago that we walked the cobblestone in their shoes, searching for the ubiquitous red plastic cup and the chance to feel like we fit in.
