Letter to my white fraternity bros

fraternity group shot
Phi Kappa Psi, UCLA, 1983

During the first meeting of the new pledge class, brother Kehela made it quite clear: no faggots! As in, none of you Spring ’83 pledges to UCLA’s Phi Kappa Psi house better be a queer.

Perhaps he should’ve said no pussies, because the way I see it, many of you were acting like pussies. 

Scared of the dick. Tantalized by the dick.

I first dreamed of rushing a fraternity as a freshman at USC, but the school’s Sigma Chi’s called me nigger and eventually, I transferred to UCLA and rushed Phi Psi.

I wasn’t even a pledge two weeks before you gave me the nickname Tripod. As in, my dick is so big, it’s like a third leg.

This before anyone was afforded even the slightest glimpse of my penis.

It all started at the celebratory, end-of-pledge-week trip to a Dodger game. Granted, perhaps I lit the flame before ever reaching my seat with a joke to some bros while peeing in the stadium restroom: “Boy, this water’s cold.”

As in, my dick is so long, it’s able to take the temperature of the water in the urinal.

That was my sole contribution to the lit fuse that ran from the restroom all the way to the upper decks of Dodger Stadium (where the rest of the bros were seated). By the time I reached our section in the stands, my dick joke had already gone viral.

The adventures of Tripod

To you, my new white frat brothers, it was open season on “Randy’s big black dick” jokes, and you guys couldn’t wait to spread the word to your sorority girl dates.

Funny, I was just borrowing a joke told to me by a fellow pledge brother. He was white. Needless to say, he never got credit.

But I got credit. If I had a dollar for every time one of my fraternity brothers talked about my tripod, I wouldn’t need credit.

You let me down when you focused on the size of my dick instead of the size of my brain or my heart.

You even painted limericks about me and my tripod on the house walls during a party where everybody painted things on the wall — funny, sexual-harassment type limericks.

Yes, sexual harassment. What else do you call it when you talk about someone else’s genitalia in front of them, as if they’re not present, or, they’re present but haven’t given you consent to talk about their private parts?

No doubt on some of the your minds was the idea that I might sexually harass you. After all, I was a cheerleader, didn’t date girls and wasn’t hyper masculine; and since you were already thinking of my big black dick …

To me, maybe two of you were doable. Then again, at least one of you had a bigger dick than me — as I learned in the showers once I moved into the house — so maybe three of you were doable. LOL

But that’s it. Never once did I think about doing any of you. But more than once, one of you thought about doing me.

No, I don’t want to suck your dick!

Suddenly blurted out by a drunk heterosexual bro during a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with sex.

Let’s go fuck this bottle of Tequila. Are you ready to go fuck this bottle of Tequila?

The confusing challenge put to me by another drunk heterosexual bro. Mind you, to this day, I’ve never heard an analogy or reference to drinking based on any phrase that involves fucking the bottle. What the fuck did he mean?

Didn’t matter to me so much. I was there to get my degree, my man, and my cheerleader on. And live the college high life. That’s where you guys came in, but you let me down.

You let me down by not letting me be who I was and by focusing on the one thing white culture is obsessed with when it comes to black man.

You let me down when you focused on the size of my dick instead of the size of my brain or my heart.

You let me down because I came in a closeted faggot and I went out a closeted faggot, having virtually learned nothing from you but how to get drunk off my ass to the point of risking my life, and the fact that white boys will forever be obsessed with the size of my dick, no matter its size.

Oh, and when it comes to fraternities, no faggots allowed. Just pussies.

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