Stars, but mostly bars

The frat boys got drunk so the South would rise again

I went to Transylvania College for two years. The school does exist, in Lexington, Ky. Jefferson Davis, the first and last president of the Confederacy, was an alumnus, long before I went there. But they named one of the men’s dorms for him.

So it should be no surprise that the Kappa Alpha fraternity had a chapter there. Kappa Alpha was formed to honor “the lost cause of the Confederacy.” The brothers sang “Dixie” a lot. They sometimes wore rented Confederate uniforms. They had a chant they loved. The last line can be printed as, “Go to heck, you Yankee son of a lady dog.” Which would nearly always lead to a confrontation with the Pi Kappa Alphas.

I don’t know why. The Pi Kappa Alphas didn’t seem to care about the Civil War, or anything else, besides women and beer. But when they heard that chant in the cafeteria food flew.

Every year, in January, the Kappa Alpha brothers honored Gen. Robert E. Lee’s birthday by guarding a Confederate battle flag from sunrise to sunset.

It wasn’t the stirring spectacle you would expect. No clean-cut young men standing at attention next to a flag pole. No ceremonial changing of the guard with watchwords and salutes.

It was a group of young men, sitting around a small fire, guarding a small flag, passing around a large bottle of whiskey. It looked more like a hobo camp than an honor guard.

One year, the Chi Omega sisters, pretending to be courageous Confederate women, brought them hot food, which the Kappa Alphas ignored. Two of the girls on my hall were pouting about that.

But the vigil wasn’t about the “lost cause” or Robert E. Lee. Guarding the Confederate flag was yet another excuse for the fraternity brothers to get falling-down drunk, and they did, with a vengeance.

Late in the afternoon, I heard girls whooping and looked out in the lobby to see a group of Delta Delta Delta sisters running into the dorm, brandishing the Kappa Alphas’ flag.

Some time later the Kappa Alphas staggered in, hoping to retrieve their banner. But the Tri Delts were long gone, up to the second floor of the women’s dorm, off limits to any male who wasn’t a hamster.

The Kappa Alphas had as much chance of getting their flag back as I had of being crowned Miss Transylvania in the spring.

So they headed for the cafeteria, where soon they could be heard chanting, “Go to heck, you Yankee son of a lady dog.”

I don’t know who threw the first bowl of creamed succotash, but soon it was flying everywhere, along with the creamed asparagus and Bavarian cream pudding. The mess that resulted had to be seen to be believed.

The frat boys didn’t clean it up.

Lately there has been some discussion about the Confederate battle flag. Some people are calling it a symbol of hate. A symbol of slavery.

For me it will always be a symbol of stupidity. The emblem of a bunch of drunks who played soldier once a year.

I see it flying, in the hands of the Tri Delts, I see its staggering defenders falling on their faces, victims of too much Rebel Yell. Then I chuckle just a little. Because it couldn’t have happened to a nicer flag.