Delta Kappa Epsilon - University of Alabama

Sighs of Psi 5 ALUMNI NEWS R anda Pollard joined a middling sorority at the University of Alabama in 1979. She was a tall, rotund, wide-shouldered specimen better suited to join a rugby team. I've imagined her with rugby players at Egans Bar, doing shots, laughing off a hematoma, or a broken tooth. I met Randa at a pool party during summer school. We despised each other from that afternoon, on. A good tan, in that era, was one of the thousand things that signaled college coolness. In season, students worked at tanning like the Crimson Tide works at football. When school resumed in the fall, olive-skinned girls would dally with swarthy young gentleman. I was handicapped. My people don't tan. I turned red in the sun, and then reverted to the color of boiled chicken. Poolside, my buddies offered a couple of friendly barbs about my pale visage. A drunk, meaty girl called out, "He looks like Andy Warhol with his shirt off!" I didn't know the girl, or her giggling friends in the group. I knew I had to respond. I replied, "You look like big old Julia Tutwiler squeezed into a one piece." The girl and I exchanged more coarse insults, and then kept our distance for the rest of the afternoon. Randa Pollard and I continued to cross paths. She was in my Alabama History class. We studied about the amazing contributions of Julia Tutwiler and her life of achievement. From my text book I tore out a picture of the heavyset, double- chinned Tutwiler. I passed it to Randa, with a note that said "IT'S YOU!" She was furious. The following evening, I encountered Randa as I left a gathering at Gallettes bar. Neither of us was in a civil state. She demanded an apology for my insult in class. I argued that I owed Julia Tutwiler an apology. She poked her thick finger into my chest. It hurt, so I gripped it. She countered with blows to my head with her free hand. Her large friends joined in. I knew never to hit a girl. My only choice was to break free and run for the safety of the DKE house. The DKE house was literally and figuratively a crossroads at the University of Alabama. We were the closest fraternity house to the stadium. We were adjacent to sorority row. The house was only a hundred yards from restaurants and bars. DKE social events were noteworthy. We certainly had great bands. There were many impromptu gatherings that occurred out of some plan hatched in the DKE living room. A fleeting afternoon idea could turn into a crowded, noisy happening by nightfall. Sleeping with Julia Tutwiler By John Nielsen '83 Personal or social faux pas were subject to (mostly humorous) trials by random brothers seated in the parlor. Simple missteps like traffic tickets, a bad football bet, or taking crib courses were needled. Details of romantic transgressions were exaggerated and broadcasted throughout the fraternity house. The personality of the brotherhood was boisterous. Timidity in the DKE house was not rewarded. A tribal, challenging environment prepared young men for the assaults that life would deal to them. If a brother showed hurt feelings from a ribbing, the taunts became worse. The brother who took offense was reminded: "It's Never Over"…a DKE phrase meaning that preparation for life includes handling its indignities. There were few greater transgressions a sorority girl could commit than to accidentally, or intentionally, sleep over at the DKE House. The old house was thin walled and compact. There was little chance of escape without being greeted by grinning brothers in the morning. Some mortified ladies were even brought breakfast in bed. The offending brother faced years of exaggerated retellings of his misdeed. News of a sister's night at the DKE house produced sorority discipline, maybe expulsion. Some seniority afforded me a room in the "penthouse" section of the fraternity house. These separated rooms were above the kitchen, away from the noisier main corridors. The privilege came with an assurance of death in the case of a kitchen fire. I liked the privacy, but I kept an escape rope in case the antiquated kitchen ignited. In the spring, we booked a band called "The White Animals." They were THE college band of that era. The excitement of such a gathering produced crowds of girls and a certainty of excess. Such affairs sometimes produced unexpected outcomes, and a blurry recall of the evening. The morning after that big party, I ignored the knocks and voices at my door. I opened my eyes only when I felt a hand pressed to my mouth. I was horrified to discover that Randa Pollard was in bed with me, and men were trying to force their way into my room. My first instinct was to look under the sheet. I was relieved that both of us were fully dressed. Randa whispered "I have to get out of here." "How did you get in here?" I asked. "I don't know!" she replied, "but I can't be caught in your room." I agreed. My mind raced. Men were beating on my door and Julia Tutwiler was in my bed. Such a discovery by my brothers would mean decades of retellings and distortions. I jammed my dresser between a wall and the door. Nobody could enter, but Randa and I were trapped inside. She had already spotted my escape rope. "I have to go through the window," she said. "It's 30 feet to the ground!" I replied. Randa took charge. She tied one end of the rope to bed post and lowered the other down. Randa was prepared risk death rather than be caught in my room. "Get on your hands and knees," she ordered, "so I can get up to the window." I obeyed. She stepped on my back and twisted her 200 pounds until she was reversed, backwards, with her legs dangling from the window. Randa clutched the rope and tried to wiggle her thick torso through the opening. She was stuck; with the upper half of her body remaining in my room. "Help me get past the sill," she demanded. The banging on the door and voices increased. My only choice was to lift her breasts while working her back and forth through the window. She looked at me with a combination of fear and hatred. There was no time for me to express my own distaste of the effort, or to compare the process to stacking bags of seed corn on a high shelf. Once freed, she descended the rope quickly and sprinted toward Sorority Row. I finally opened my door. The invaders found only me and bold-faced denials. Randa Pollard and I never fought again. We'd found common ground in self-preservation. If I ever see her again, I will offer that apology she'd demanded from me. If I see Julia Tutwiler in the afterlife, she'll get an apology, too.

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